3   1822  01097  4327 


WORKS  OF 

WILLIAM    MATHEAVS,    LL.D, 


GETTING  ON  IN  THE  WORLD;  or, 
Hints  on  Success  in  Life.  1  volume. 
l£mo.  Page*  874.  Price $1  CO 

THE  GREAT  CONVERSER8,  and  Other 

Essays.    1  volume.    I2mo.    Pages  304.    Price    1  50 

WORDS;  THEIR  USE  AND  ABUSE. 

1  volume.    Itmo.    Pages  494.    Price  .  2  00 

HOURS     WITH     MEN     AND     BOOKS. 

1  volume.    Itmo.    Pages  384.    Price 150 

MONDAY- CHATS;  A  Selection  from  the 
"Canneries  du  Lundi"  of  C.-A.  Salntc  Benve, 
with  a  Biographical  and  Critical  Introduction 
by  the  Translator.  1  volume,  limo.  Pages  396. 
Price 200 

ORATORT     AND     ORATORS.      1    volume. 

Itmo.    Pages  490.    Price 200 

LITERARY   STYLE,  and  Other  Essays. 

1  volume.    12mo.    Pages  845.     Price 150 


THE  GREAT  CONVENERS, 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS. 


BT 


WILLIAM  M^THEWS,  LL.D., 

AUTHOB  or  "WORDS;  THEIU  USE  AND  ABUSE,"  "GETTING  ON  IN  THE  WOBXD," 

AND    "  HOURS  WITH  MEN  AND  BOOKS." 


Je  sais  bieu  que  le  lecteur  n'a  pas  grand  besoln  de  savoir  tout  cela ;  mail 
moi,  j'ai  grand  besoin  de  le  lui  dire.— ROUSSEAU. 


TWELFTH    EDITION. 


CHICAGO: 

8.  C.  GRIGGS  AND  COMPANY. 
1885  . 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1874, 

BY  8.  C.  GRIGGS  A  CO., 
In  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


VnmtTT  *  LtOXXRD,  PRIXTXRS,  CHICA8O. 


TO 


HORACE  WHITE, 

EDITOR    01 

THE    CHICAGO    TRIBUNE 

THIS  WORK  IS  INSCRIBED, 
WITH  THE   SINCERE  REGARDS  OF 

THE  AUTHOR. 


There  are  a  hundred  faults  in  this  thing,  and  a  hundred  things  might  be 
•aid  to  prove  them  beauties.  But  it  is  needless.  A  book  may  be  amusing 
with  numerous  errors,  or  it  may  be  very  dull  without  a  single  absurdity.— 
GOLDSMITH. 

When  this  bundle  of  egotisms  is  bound  up  together,  as  they  may  be  one 
lay,  if  no  accident  prevents  this  tongue  from  wagging,  or  this  ink  from 
running,  they  will  bore  yon,  very  likely ;  so  it  would  to  read  through 
"Howell's  Letters"  from  beginning  to  end,  or  to  eat  np  the  whole  of  a  ham: 
bat  a  slice  on  occasion  may  have  a  relish:  a  dip  into  the  volume  at  random, 
and  so  on  for  a  page  or  two :  and  now  and  then  a  smile ;  and  presently  a 
Cape ;  and  the  book  drops  out  of  your  hand  ;  and  so  ban  *oir,  and  pleasant 
dreams  to  you.— THACKERAY. 


PREFACE. 


kind  reception  which  the  author's  former  work, 
"  Getting  On  in  the  World,"  has  experienced  from 
the  press  and  the  public,  has  tempted  him  to  appear 
once  more  in  print.  Many  of  the  essays  in  the  present 
volume  have  been  published  before,  but  all  of  them  have 
been  more  or  less  enlarged  and  retouched,  so  far  as  the 
author's  limited  time  would  allow;  and,  with  not  a  few 
misgivings  as  to  their  merit  and  probable  reception,  they 
are  now  given  to  the  public  in  a  permanent  form.  The 
scholar  will  find  nothing  new  in  them,  but  they  may 
serve  to  freshen  some  of  his  pleasant  recollections;  and 
if  the  general  reader,  for  whom  they  are  chiefly  intended, 
should  find  in  them  enough  of  interest  to  cheat  a  few 
hours  of  their  ennui  or  weariness,  the  writer  will  not 
deem  his  labor  wasted 

It  remains  only  to  add,  that  in  writing  the  essay  on 
the  Battle  of  Waterloo,  the  author  has  taken  pains  to 
consult  many  of  the  best  authorities, — among  the  ablest 
and  most  impartial  of  whom  is  Lt.  Col.  Charles  C.  Ches- 
ney,  R.  E.,  author  of  "Waterloo  Lectures;  a  Study  of  the 
Campaign  of  1815;"  and  that  the  map  at  the  end  of 
the  present  volume  is  a  reduced  copy  of  one  attached  to 
that  work. 


CONTENTS. 


I.  THE  GREAT  CONVERSERS,       ...  9 

II.  LITERARY  CLUBS,               ...  44 

III.  EPIGRAMS,                       ....  53 

IV.  POPULAR  FALLACIES,          ...  73 
V.  FACES,     -  85 

VI.  COMPULSORY  MORALITY,     -                -  93 

VII.  THE  POWER  OF  TRIFLES,                -        -  100 

VIII.  A  PEEP  INTO  LITERARY  WORKSHOPS,  107 

IX.  FRENCH  TRAITS,  -  -  121 

X.  PLEASANTRY  IN  LITERATURE,  -  159 

XL  OUR  DUAL  LIVES,  -  -  168 

XII.  MERRY  SAINTS,  -  -  186 

XIII.  ONE  BOOK,     -                       -       -       -  194 

XIV.  PULPIT  ORATORY,  200 
XV.  ORIGINALITY  IN  LITERATURE,                -  211 

XVI.  Is  LITERATURE  ILL- PAID?  224 

XVII.  CURIOSITIES  OF  CRITICISM,     -                -  239 

XVIII.  TIMIDITY  IN  PUBLIC  SPEAKING,  249 

XIX.  NOSES,  -  -  257 

XX.  THE  BATTLE  OF  WATERLOO  (WITH  MAP),  272 

XXI.  INDEX, 295 


THE  GREAT  CONVERSERS. 


AMONG  the  books  that  remain  to  be  written,  one 
of  the  most  interesting  and  instructive  is  a  vol 
ume  upon  the  great  conversers  of  all  ages,  portraying 
their  styles  and  peculiarities,  and  giving  well-selected 
specimens,  a  kind  of  quintessence,  of  their  sayings.  To 
cull  out  their  wisest  and  wittiest,  as  well  as  their  most 
eloquent  observations,  the  very  apices  rerum,  from  all  the 
"Ana"  and  books  of  table-talk  that  have  been  published 
from  the  days  of  Xenophon  and  his  "Memorabilia"  to 
those  of  Eckermann's  "Conversations  with  Goethe," 
would  be  no  easy  task,  yet  it  would  be  labor  well  spent, 
and  we  can  hardly  think  of  a  book  more  piquant  or 
charming.  The  materials  for  it  are  exhaustless,  and  the 
difficulty  would  be  to  grapple  with  such  an  "embarrass 
ment  of  riches," — to  know,  after  opening  the  floodgates 
of  anecdote  and  reminiscence,  when  to  close  them.  One 
becomes,  by  familiarity,  more  and  more  enamored  of  such 
a  theme;  and  he  is  loth,  just  as  he  has  begun  to  irri 
gate  the  arid  wastes  of  modern  social  life  with  the 
sparkling  waters  of  a  younger  age,  to  be  silenced  by 
some  Palaemon  of  a  publisher  with  his  inexorable 
"  Claudite  jam  rivos,  pueri;  sat  prata  biberunt." 

Before  speaking  of  some  of  the  most  famous  talkers 
of  ancient  and  modern  times,  it  may  be  well  to  say  a 
word  upon  a  question  which  has  been  mooted  by  cer- 


10  THE   GREAT   CONVEBSERS. 

tain  essayists,  namely,  whether  authors  or  men  of  the 
world  are  the  better  convergers.  William  Hazlitt,  who 
was  a  keen  observer,  and  mingled  much  in  the  society 
of  literary  men,  declares  that  authors  and  actors  are 
not  fitted  to  shine  in  the  social  circle.  Authors,  he 
thought,  "ought  to  be  read,  and  not  heard;"  and,  as 
to  actors,  they,  he  thinks,  who  have  intoxicated  and 
maddened  multitudes  by  their  public  display  of  talent, 
can  rarely  be  supposed  to  feel  much  stimulus  in  enter 
taining  one  or  two  friends,  or  in  being  the  life  of  a 
dinner  party.  She  who  perished  over  night  by  the 
dagger  or  the  bowl,  as  Cassandra  or  Cleopatra,  may  be 
allowed  to  sip  her  tea  in  silence,  and  not  to  be  herself 
again  till  she  revives  in  Aspasia.  Actors,  again,  utter 
cut-and-dry  repartees  which  are  put  into  their  mouths, 
and  must  be  a  little  embarrassed  when  their  cue  is  taken 
from  them.  Rousseau,  on  the  other  hand,  who  wrote  so 
laboriously,  pronounces  the  conversation  of  authors  supe 
rior  to  their  books;  an  opinion  which,  except  in  the 
case  of  a  few,  to  whom  the  stimulus  of  society  was 
necessary  to  bring  out  their  stores,  the  biographies  of 
celebrated  authors  hardly  confirm.  Johnson,  indeed, 
spoke  like  a  wit,  and  wrote  like  a  pedant;  but  his  was 
a  ponderous,  elephantine  mind,  which  needed  the  excite 
ment  of  conversation  to  sting  it  into  activity.  Many  of 
the  most  celebrated  writers,  who  have  filled  their  books 
with  an  originality  and  eloquence  that  defy  oblivion, 
have  been  dumb  before  their  fellow-men.  Not  seldom 
it  happens  that  gems  of  the  purest  ray  serene  emit  a 
very  dreary  lustre  at  the  dinner-table  of  patronizing 
big-wiggery,  or  in  the  salons  of  blue-stockingism.  How 
often  has  it  happened  that  your  man  of  genius,  when 
invited  to  a  packed  assembly  for  the  express  purpose  of 
being  pumped,  has  proved  as  dry  and  wheezy  as  a  well 


THE   GEEAT   CONVERSERS.  11 

in  August,  giving  out  not  even  a  drop  of  the  antici 
pated  living  water!  Many  a  fine  spirit  that  can  present 
novel  ideas  in  kaleidoscopic  variety  upon  paper,  not 
only  awing  you  by  their  profundity,  but  dazzling  you 
by  their  tropical  splendor,  is  notorious  for  his  inability 
to  put  two  ideas  together  by  word  of  mouth, —  failing 
even  to  find  a  door  of  utterance  in  that  eternal  refuge 
for  the  destitute  of  small  talk,  the  weather.  Golden 
ingots  he  has,  precious  bars  of  thought,  which,  in  the 
privacy  of  home,  he  can  burnish  into  splendor,  or  con 
vert  into  the  coin  of  the  realm;  but,  like  many  a 
wealthy  capitalist,  he  cannot,  on  the  spur  of  the  moment, 
produce  the  farthings  current  in  the  market-place. 

Abundant  reason  is  there  why  this  should  be  so. 
Those  who  expect  an  author  that  has  exhausted  himself 
in  his  books  to  be  equally  brilliant  in  company,  forget 
that  it  is  the  very  fact  that  he  has  lavished  his  riches 
in  his  writings  that  must  disqualify  him  from  displaying 
them  elsewhere.  It  is  simply  because  he  has  been  roused 
to  an  intense  pitch  of  excitement  while  engaged  in  the 
task  of  composition,  that  he  is  proportionally  nerveless 
and  relaxed  in  his  social  hours.  The  electrical  eel  can 
not  be  always  giving  off  shocks;  the  bow  that  has  long 
been  strung  loses  its  elasticity;  the  bird  that  soars  to 
the  stars  must  sometimes  rest  its  wing  on  the  earth. 
While  other  men  in  society  abandon  their  whole  souls 
to  the  topics  of  the  moment,  and,  concentrating  their 
energies,  appear  keen  and  animated,  the  man  of  genius, 
who  has  stirred  the  vast  sea  of  human  hearts  by  his 
writings,  feels  a  languor  and  prostration  arising  from 
the  secret  toil  of  thought;  and  it  is  only  when  he  has 
recruited  his  energies  by  relaxation  and  repose,  and  is 
once  more  in  his  study,  surrounded  by  those  master 
spirits  with  whom  he  has  so  often  held  "celestial  col^ 


12  THE  GREAT  CONVEB8ERS. 

loquy  sublime,"  that  his  soul  rekindles  with  enthusiasm, 
and  pours  itself  on  paper  in  thoughts  that  breathe,  and 
words  that  burn. 

It  is  said  that  neither  Pope  nor  Dryden  was  brilliant 
in  conversation;  the  one  being  too  "saturnine  and  re 
served,"  and  the  other  too  much  afraid  of  the  author  of 
the  "  Essay  on  Man."  Neither  Addison  nor  Cowper  shoue 
in  society,  and  the  same  is  true  of  the  celebrated  French 
authors,  Descartes,  Moliere,  La  Fontaine  and  Buffon. 
Addison,  indeed,  could  talk  charmingly  to  one  or  two 
friends,  but  he  was  shy  and  absent  before  strangers.  To 
use  his  own  happy  metaphor,  he  could  draw  bills  for  a 
thousand  pounds,  though  he  had  not  a  guinea  in  his 
pocket  Hume's  writings  were  so  superior  to  his  con 
versation  that  Horace  Walpole  used  to  say  that  he  un 
derstood  nothing  till  he  had  written  upon  it.  Goldsmith 
was  a  blundering  converser,  and  showed  hardly  a  spark 
of  the  genius  that  blazes  through  his  writings.  Occa 
sionally  he  blurted  out  a  good  thing,  as  when  he  applied 
to  Johnson  a  saying,  in  one  of  Gibber's  plays,  "There 
is  no  arguing  with  Johnson,  for,  when  his  pistol  misses 
fire,  he  knocks  down  his  adversary  with  the  butt  end  of 
it."  But  generally  he  "  talked  like  poor  Poll,"  and,  when 
he  made  an  accidental  hit,  soon  neutralized  its  effects  by 
something  exquisitely  foolish.  Neither  Corneille,  the 
great  French  dramatist,  nor  Marmontel,  the  novelist, 
was  master  of  the  intellectual  foils.  Nicolle  said  of  a 
sparkling  wit :  "  He  vanquishes  me  in  the  drawing-room, 
but  surrenders  to  me  at  discretion  on  the  stairs."  The  elo 
quent  Rousseau,  whose  writings  have  bewitched  thousands, 
confessed  that  when  forced  to  open  his  mouth  he  infal 
libly  talked  nonsense:  "I  hastily  gabble  over  a  number 
of  words  without  ideas,  happy  only  when  they  chance  to 
nothing;  thus  endeavoring  to  conquer  or  hide  my 


THE   GREAT  CONVERSERS.  13 

incapacity,  I  rarely  fail  to  show  it."  The  witty  Charles 
II.,  who  was  so  charmed  with  the  humor  of  Hudibras 
that  he  caused  himself  to  be  introduced  privately  to  the 
author,  found  Butler  an  intolerably  dull  companion.  He 
was  confident  that  so  stupid  a  fellow  never  wrote  the 
book.  The  Earl  of  Dorset,  who  sought  an  interview  with 
the  great  satirist,  was  similarly  disappointed.  Taking 
three  bottles  of  wine  with  him,  he  found  the  poet  dull 
and  heavy  after  the  first  had  been  drained,  somewhat 
sparkling  after  the  second  bottle,  and,  after  the  third, 
more  stupid  and  muzzy  than  ever.  "  Your  friend,"  said 
the  Earl,  after  he  had  left  with  his  introducer,  "  is  like  a 
ninepin, — little  at  both  ends,  and  great  in  the  middle." 
Godwin,  the  author  of  The  Political  Justice,  was  as 
dull  as  Butler.  According  to  Hazlitt,  he  had  not  a 
word  to  throw  to  a  dog;  his  talk  was  as  flat  as  a  pan 
cake.  All  his  genius  was  hoarded  for  his  books ;  he 
had  no  idea  of  anything  till  he  was  wound  up  like  a 
clock, —  not  to  speak,  but  to  write, — and  then  he  seemed 
like  a  person  risen  from  sleep,  or  from  the  dead.  It 
was  much  the  same  with  Adam  Smith,  who  hardly 
dared  open  his  lips  in  society,  lest  some  pearl  should 
drop  out.  He  was  so  chary  of  his  thoughts,  that  once 
Garrick,  after  listening  to  him  awhile,  whispered  slily 
to  a  friend,  "  What  say  you  to  this,  eh  ?  Flabby,  I  think." 
Again,  the  shyness  of  authors,  the  natural  result  of 
their  recluse  habits,  is  doubtless  one  of  the  secrets  of 
their  frequent  failures  in  conversation.  That  Oliver 
Goldsmith,  awed  by  a  Johnson,  bullied  by  a  Boswell, 
and  snubbed  by  a  Hosier,  should  have  talked  "  like  poor 
Poll,"  as  Garrick  declared,  is  not  strange;  but  there 
are  few  who  will  not  agree  with  a  kindhearted  writer 
in  Blackwood,  that  had  any  person  got  poor  "Goldy" 
all  to  himself,  over  a  bottle  of  Madeira,  in  Goldsmith's 


14  THE  OBEAT  CONTERSER8. 

own  lodging,  and  talked  to  him  lovingly  of  his  works, 
he  would  have  gone  away  with  the  conviction  that 
there  was  something  in  the  well-spring  of  so  much 
gen  ins,  more  marvelous  than  its  diamond-like  spray, — 
that  the  man  was  immeasurably  greater  than  the  frag 
ments  of  him  found  in  his  books.  Campbell's  conver 
sation  in  general  society  was  commonly  disappointing; 
yet  the  writer  just  quoted,  says  that,  accepting  an  invita 
tion  to  sup  with  him  teie-a-fete,  he  found  him  a  most 
brilliant  talker : — "  I  went  at  ten ;  I  stayed  till  dawn ;  and 
all  my  recollections  of  the  most  sparkling  talk  I  have 
ever  heard  in  drawing-rooms  afford  nothing  to  equal  the 
riotous  affluence  of  wit,  of  humor,  of  fancy,  of  genius, 
which  the  great  lyrist  poured  forth  in  his  wondrous 
monologue."  To  a  talker  so  fascinating  one  might  ap 
ply  the  words  of  Joanna  Baillie : 

He  IB  so  full  of  pleasant  anecdote; 
So  rich,  eo  gay,  BO  poignant  ia  his  wit, 
Time  vanishes  before  him  as  he  speaks, 
And  ruddy  morning  through  the  lattice  peeps 
Ere  night  seems  well  begun. 

There  is  another  reason  why  men  who  spend  their 
lives  in  thought  often  do  not  shine  in  the  social  circle. 
Deep  feelings  do  not  rise  rapidly  to  the  lips,  and  are 
rather  checked  than  encouraged  by  the  forms  and  cere 
monies  of  social  life.  Profound  thinkers  are  apt  to  be 
dull  in  company,  because  they  have  to  dive  to  the  bot 
tom  of  their  minds  for  the  treasures  which  they  would 
communicate  to  others,  and  cannot  keep  pace,  therefore, 
with  those  shallow  speakers  whose  thoughts  lie  on  the 
surface.  Butler  has  said,  as  truly  as  wittily,  that  the 
tongue  is  like  a  racehorse,  which  runs  the  faster  the 
less  weight  it  carries.  It  matters  little  how  vast  an 
amount  of  intellectual  wealth  a  man  has  in  solid  bars, 


THE  GREAT  CONVERSERS.  15 

if  he  cannot  mint  it  into  coin  for  currency  in  the  com 
merce  of  thought.  Again,  the  conversation  of  authors 
fails  often  because  of  its  tenaciousness.  It  fastens  upon 
a  subject,  and  will  not  let  it  go, —  thus  resembling  a 
battle  rather  than  a  skirmish,  and  making  a  toil  of 
pleasure.  The  man  who  has  gone  to  the  bottom  of  a 
subject,  though  slow  to  talk,  yet,  having  begun  to  dis 
cuss  it,  is  not  content  to  touch  it  lightly,  to  dally  with 
it,  to  sport  and  trifle,  to  blow  brilliant  bubbles,  but 
must  begin  at  the  beginning,  and  go  through  to  the 
end.  Besides  all  this,  authors,  having  a  reputation  to 
lose,  are  often  too  ambitious  to  shine,  to  talk  well.  It 
is  almost-  inevitable,  when  great  wits  are  pitted  against 
each  other,  that  talking  should  turn  into  an  arena  for 
display. 

It  would  be  an  inexcusable  omission,  in  an  account 
of  the  great  talkers,  to  say  nothing  of  the  ancients.  In 
conversation,  as  in  oratory,  they  probably  outshone  the 
moderns.  The  printing  press  has  damaged  the  "Ma 
hogany"  even  more  than  it  has  damaged  the  hustings. 
Socrates,  as  we  see  him  in  the  "Memorabilia,"  barefoot, 
and  plainly  clad,  inexorably  logical,  and  the  incarnation 
of  common  sense,  must  have  been  one  of  the  most 
brilliant  and  instructive  talkers  of  classic  times.  Chat 
ting  in  the  agora,  the  gymnasia,  the  shop  of  the  corselet 
maker,  in  the  studio  of  the  statuary,  and  at  the  table, 
he  must  have  been  a  kind  of  walking  encyclopedia,  a 
college  on  legs ;  and  the  whole  State  must  have  felt  the 
influence  of  his  philosophy  in  all  the  veins  of  its  moral 
being.  The  few  sayings  we  have  of  Themistocles  and 
Alcibiades  are  "steeped  in  the  very  brine  of  conceit, 
and  sparkle  like  salt  in  fire."  Most  of  the  reported 
mots  of  Diogenes  are  so  pungent  and  racy,  that  we  re- 
givt  that  there  was  no  Bozzy  to  give  us  more  of  them. 


Iti  THE  GREAT  CONTERSEK8. 

The  man  who  coined  the  word  "cosmopolite"  must 
have  been,  in  spite  of  his  cynicism,  a  rare  and  catholic 
thinker. 

Cicero  was  a  most  brilliant  talker,  and  must  have 
been  what  Sydney  Smith  calls  "a  diner-out  of  the  high 
est  lustre."  He  was  a  wit  as  well  as  an  orator,  and 
even  deigned  to  pun  when  he  could  hit  hard  by  doing 
so.  Niebuhr  even  thinks  that  wit,  what  the  French 
call  esprit,  was  the  predominant  and  most  brilliant 
faculty  of  his  mind;  and  it  is  probable  that  at  a  re 
partee  he  would  have  been  a  match  for  Talleyrand.  He 
waa  so  famous  for  his  bon-mots,  that  Caesar  employed  a 
man  like  Baron  Grimm  to  send  him  a  collection  of 
them  from  time  to  time,  to  any  place  where  he  might 
be  encamped.  Though  but  few  of  his  jests  are  pre 
served, —  the  Liber  Jocularis,  or  collection  of  them  by 
his  freedman,  Tiro,  having  been  lost — yet  they  are  of 
such  a  quality  as  to  show  that  he  had  a  prompt  as  well 
as  a  razor-like  wit,  that  could  draw  blood  when  he  chose ; 
and  it  is  a  wonder  that  some  of  them  did  not  cost  him 
his  head.  According  to  Macrobius,  his  enemies  called 
him  "consularem  scurram" — the  consular  buffoon.  A 
Roman  lady  having  told  him  that  she  was  but  thirty 
years  old,  "It  must  be  true,"  replied  Tully,  "for  I  have 
heard  it  these  twenty  years."  When  Pompey,  who  had 
married  Caesar's  daughter,  asked  Cicero, — referring  to 
Dolabella,  who  had  joined  Caesar's  party, — "Where  is 
your  son-in-law?"  Cicero  retorted,  "With  your  father- 
in-law."  Dolabella  was  of  short  stature,  and  once,  when 
Cicero  saw  him  with  a  long  sword  at  his  side,  he  asked, 
"Who  has  tied  that  little  fellow  to  his  sword?"  Quin- 
tilian  celebrates  Cicero's  urbanitas,  by  which  the  an- 
ciente  expressed  that  peculiar  delicacy  and  eloquence  of 
humor  that  smacks  of  the  cultivation  of  a  capital;  but 


THE  GREAT  CONVEBSER8.  17 

the  great  orator  sometimes  stooped  to  coarse  facetious- 
ness,  as  when,  in  allusion  to  the  Oriental  custom  of 
boring  the  ears  of  slaves,  he  replied  to  a  man  of  Eastern 
and  servile  descent,  who  complained  that  he  could  not 
hear  him,  "  Yet  you  have  holes  in  your  ears." 

Joe  Miller  is  the  great  storehouse  to  which  it  is  sup 
posed  that  most  of  the  modern  jackdaws  of  wit  go  for 
their  fine  feathers.  But  in  the  "Ana"  of  antiquity,  as 
a  late  writer  remarks,  we  shall  find  more  than  one  jeu 
tfesprit  which  now  adorns  the  brazen  front  of  the 
plagiary.  What  can  be  finer  than  Foote's  reply  to  the 
English  Lord  who  was  boasting  the  great  age  of  the 
wine  which,  in  his  parsimony,  he  had  caused  to  be  served 
in  extremely  small  glasses, — "  It  is  very  little  of  its  age  ?" 
Yet  this  identical  witticism,  says  Mr.  Hannay,  is  in 
Athenaeus,  where  it  is  assigned  to  a  woman  whose  jokes 
were  better  than  her  character.  "Wit,  like  gold,"  con 
tinues  the  same  pleasant  writer,  "  is  circulated  sometimes 
with  one  head  on  it  and  sometimes  another,  according 
to  the  potentates  who  rule  its  realm.  Few  situations 
are  more  trying  than  to  sit  at  dinner  and  hear  a  racon 
teur  telling  'the  capital  thing  said  by  Louis  XIV.'  to 
so-and-so,  with  a  distinct  recollection  that  the  same  thing 
was  said  by  Augustus  to  a  provincial.  You  cannot 
quote  Macrobius  without  the  imputation  of  pedantry, 
even  if  you  were  capable  of  the  cruelty;  and  you  grin 
pleasant  approbation  with  the  consciousness  that  you  are 
a  hypocrite." 

Coming  down  to  modern  times,,  we  find  Martin 
Luther  to  have  been  one  of  the  most  charming  talkers 
of  the  ages.  Fond  of  society,  fond  of  music,  fond  of 
children,  intensely  earnest,  outspoken,  and  bubbling 
over  with  humor,  he  had  just  the  qualities  which  make 
a  good  converser;  and  we  find  his  "Table-Talk" 


18  THE  GREAT  CONVER8ER8. 

abounding  in  those  illuminated  thoughts  that  cast  "a 
light  as  from  a  painted  window"  upon  every  theme, 
even  the  darkest  and  most  dreary.  Coarse  and  violent 
he  sometimes  was ;  he  used  "  plain  words,  stript  of  their 
shirts ;"  called,  Spartan-like,  a  spade  a  spade ;  and  loved, 
as  what  Teuton  does  not? — his  glass  of  beer.  But  re 
volutions  are  not  made  with  rosewater,  nor  can  broad 
axes  have  the  delicacy  of  edge  of  razors.  The 
more  intimately  we  know  Luther,  the  better  we  like 
him,  for,  as  another  has  said,  "  he  has  the  charm  of  na 
ture.  Of  the  most  delicate  wine  a  man  is  sometimes 
tired;  but  water  is  eternally  fresh  and  new,  as  welcome 
the  thousandth  time  as  the  first."  "God  made  the 
priest,"  said  he,  one  day;  "the  devil  set  about  an  imi 
tation,  but  he  made  the  tonsure  too  large,  and  produced 
a  monk."  In  illustration  the  great  reformer  is  especially 
happy.  "  That  little  fellow,"  he  said  of  a  bird  going  to 
roost,  "has  chosen  his  shelter,  and  is  quietly  rocking 
himself  to  sleep  without  a  care  for  to-morrow's  lodging, 
calmly  holding  by  his  little  twig,  and  leaving  God  to 
think  for  him."  "  When  I  am  assailed,"  he  says,  "with 
heavy  tribulations,  I  rush  out  among  my  pigs,  rather 
than  remain  alone  by  myself.  The  human  heart  is  like 
a  millstone  in  a  mill;  when  you  put  wheat  under  it, 
it  turns  and  grinds  and  bruises  the  wheat  to  flour.  If 
you  put  no  wheat,  it  still  grinds  on  ;  but  then  'tis  it 
self  it  grinds  and  wears  away."  Sometimes  he  tells  a 
good  story,  as  this:  "An  idle  priest,  instead  of  reciting 
his  breviary,  used  to  run  over  the  alphabet,  and  then 
say:  «0  my  God,  take  this  alphabet,  and  put  it  to 
gether  how  you  will!'"  Had  Dr.  Martin  lived  in  our 
day,  he  would  perhaps  have  thrown  his  inkstand  at 
some  other  persons  besides  the  devil.  It  is  plain  that 
he  had  no  sympathy  with  bluestockings,  or  "  woman's- 


THE   GREAT   CONVEBSERS.  19 

rightsers,"  for  he  says,  "There  is  no  gown  or  garment 
that  worse  becomes  a  woman  than  when  she  will  be 
wise."  Though  often  deeply  depressed,  he  always  coun 
selled  gayety  of  heart  in  others.  "The  birds/'  he  said, 
"  must  fly  over  our  heads,  but  why  allow  them  to  roost 
in  our  hair?"  Of  female  beauty  he  says,  "The  hair  is 
the  finest  ornament  women  have.  Of  old,  virgins  used 
to  wear  it  loose,  except  when  they  were  in  mourning. 
I  like  women  to  let  their  hair  fall  down  their  back; 
'tis  a  most  agreeable  sight." 

Treading  close  upon  the  heels  of  Luther  comes  an 
other  royal  talker,  Scaliger ;  —  not  Julius  Csesar,  but 
Joseph  —  whose  "  Ana  "  Hallam  pronounces  the  best  ever 
published.  His  enormous  memory,  which  held  every 
thing  as  with  hooks  of  steel,  and  his  prodigious  learning, 
were  the  wonder  of  the  world.  His  pride  was  as  im 
perial  as  his  genius,  and  his  egotism  was  absolutely 
sublime.  No  king  or  emperor,  he  declares,  was  so  hand 
some  as  his  father,  and  then  adds:  "Look  at  me;  I 
am  exactly  like  him,  and  especially  the  aquiline  nose!" 
He  regarded  himself  as  the  monarch  of  the  literary 
realm,  and  spoke  of  contemporary  scholars  with  con 
tempt  and  scorn.  They  were  all,  or  nearly  all,  atheists, 
pedants,  apes,  or  asses,  unworthy  to  loose  even  the  latchet 
of  his  shoes.  Of  Justus  Lipsius  he  says:  "I  care  as 
little  for  Lipsius's  Latin  as  he  does  for  Cicero's;"  and 
of  the  Germans :  "  The  Germans  are  indifferent  what 
wine  they  drink,  so  that  it  is  wine,  or  what  Latin  they 
speak,  so  that  it  is  Latin." 

In  the  next  century  the  most  brilliant  talk  to  be 
heard  in  Europe  was  that  of  the  wits  of  the  "  Mermaid  " 
in  London,  whose  conversational  fame,  had  they  but  a 
Menage,  or  other  "chiel  amang  them  taking  notes," 
would  have  rivalled,  if  not  eclipsed,  that  of  the  diseurs 


20  THE   GREAT   CONVER8ER8. 

of  Lewis  the  Fourteenth's  age  in  France.  To  this  fa 
mous  haunt  came  the  "myriad-minded"  Shakspeare;  the 
brawny  egotist,  Ben  Jonson;  the  metaphysician,  divine, 
seer,  pedant  and  poet,  Donne ;  that  encyclopedia  on  legs, 
Selden;  Beaumont,  Fletcher,  Chapman,  Raleigh,  and  other 
gods  of  intellect,  who,  seated  in  a  room  well-filled  with 
tobacco  smoke,  and  at  a  table  covered  with  cups  of  ca 
nary,  passed  many  an  hour  "ayant  the  twal,"  in  exchang 
ing  their  bolts  and  flashes.  It  was  here  that  came  off 
those  merry  meetings  and  wit-combats  which  Fuller  has 
celebrated  and  Beaumont  so  finely  painted. 

What  things  have  we  seen 

Done  at  the  Mermaid  1  hard  words  that  have  been 
So  nimble,  and  so  full  of  subtle  flame, 
As  if  that  every  one  from  whom  they  came 
Had  meant  to  put  his  whole  wit  in  a  jest, 
And  had  resolved  to  live  a  fool  the  rest 
Of  hla  dull  life.    *    •    • 

We  left  an  air  behind  us,  which  alone 
WM  able  to  make  the  two  next  companies 
Right  witty,  though  but  downright  fools. 

Of  all  these  flashes  of  wit  and  sentiment, —  these  spo 
ken  fireworks, —  we  have,  alas!  not  a  scintillation.  The 
chasm  is  one  of  the  most  deplorable  in  literature.  Think 
of  Shakspeare's  talk  reported  with  the  fullness  and  accu 
racy  of  a  Boswell!  Luckily  we  have  a  few  jottings  of 
"Old  Ben's"  talk  while  he  was  visiting  Drummond,  of 
Hawthornden ;  though  even  these  are  so  meagre  and  frag 
mentary,  and  come  from  so  hostile  a  pen,  that  the  rule 
ex  pede  Herculem  hardly  applies.  There  are  enough  of 
them,  however,  to  show  that  he  was  what  we  should 
infer  from  his  plays, —  an  Englishman  to  the  backbone. 
His  bluff,  hearty  manner,  his  swaggering,  boastful  way 
of  speaking  of  his  own  works,  his  vanity,  egotism,  love 


THE   GREAT  CONVERSEB8.  21 

of  deep  potations,  his  dogged  self-will,  stern  integrity, 
hatred  of  baseness  and  meanness,  and  vein  of  sterling 
sense,  all  peep  out  even  in  these  imperfect  notes,  and 
give  us  a  tolerable  photograph  of  the  man.  "He  would 
not  flatter,"  he  said,  "though  he  saw  Death."  Of  Queen 
Elizabeth,  he  said  that  "  she  never  saw  herself,  after  she 
became  old,  in  a  true  glass;  they  painted  her,  and 
sometimes  would  vermilion  her  nose."  Of  all  styles  he 
said  he  most  loved  to  be  named  honest,  and  "hath  of 
that  one  hundred  letters  so  naming  him."  That  he  had 
felt  the  grip  of  poverty  we  have  painful  proof  in  the 
statement  that  "sundry  tymes  he  hath  devoured  his 
books," — that  is,  sold  them  to  supply  himself  with  food. 
His  judgments  on  other  poets  were  insolently  magiste 
rial,  and  remind  one  of  Scaliger.  The  remark  in  which 
he  most  vividly  photographs  himself,  is  this:  "He  hath 
consumed  a  whole  night  in  lying  looking  to  his  great  toe, 
about  which  he  hath  seen  Tartars  and  Turks,  Romans 
and  Carthaginians,  fight  in  his  imagination." 

Of  that  "gulf  of  learning,"  John  Selden,  we  have, 
most  fortunately,  some  of  the  treasures  in  his  "Table- 
Talk,"  published  by  his  amanuensis,  Richard  Milward, 
in  1689.  In  reading  its  pages  it  seems  difficult  to  be 
lieve  that  we  are  listening,  not  only  to  the  "  Monarch 
of  Letters,"  as  Ben  Jonson  styles  him,  but  to  the  great 
Bencher  of  the  Inner  Temple,  who  was  the  "law-book 
of  the  Judges;"  to  the  orator  who  thundered  against 
"tonnage  and  poundage"  in  the  House  of  Commons; 
still  less  to  the  author  of  the  dry  "Titles  of  Honor," 
and  the  ponderous,  crabbed  "Marmora  Arundeliana, 
Sive  Saxa  Gneca  Incisa."  But  Selden  had  an  intellect  of 
wondrous  flexibility;  like  the  elephant's  trunk,  it  could 
uproot  an  oak  or  pick  up  a  pin.  Dry  and  bristling 
with  lore  in  his  writings,  he  can  be  in  his  conversation 


22  THE   GREAT   CONVER8ERS. 

as  simple  and  playful  as  a  child.  He  is  "  still  the  great 
scholar  and  the  tough  parliamentarian,  but  merry,  fa 
miliar  and  witty.  The  dvypiffftov  filaaiia  is  on  the 
sea  of  his  vast  intellect  He  writes  like  the  opponent 
of  Grotins;  he  talks  like  the  friend  of  Ben  Jonson." 
Clarendon,  a  severe  judge,  tells  us  that  "he  was  the 
most  clear  discourser,  and  had  the  best  faculty  of  making 
hard  things  easy,  and  presenting  them  to  the  under 
standing,  that  hath  been  known."  Our  limits  prevent 
us  from  giving  many  bits  of  his  talk,  but  we  present  a 
few.  Of  friends,  he  says:  "Old  friends  are  best.  King 
James  used  to  call  for  his  old  shoes;  they  were  easiest 
for  his  feet."  Under  Language,  we  read :  "  Words  must 
be  fitted  to  a  man's  mouth ;  'twas  well  said  of  the  id- 
low  who  was  to  make  a  speech  for  my  Lord  Mayor,  he 
desired  to  take  the  measure  of  his  Lordship's  mouth." 

It  is  in  this  "Table-Talk"  that  is  found  the  saying 
so  admired  by  Coleridge,  that  transubstantiation  is  "only 
rhetoric  turned  into  logic;"  and  the  happy  comparison 
of  faith  and  works  to  light  and  heat:  "put  out  the 
candle  and  they  are  both  gone;  one  remains  not  with 
out  the  other;  so  'tis  betwixt  faith  and  works." 

Selden  loves  to  give  a  zest  to  his  discourse  by  familiar 
allusions,  aptly  introduced,  or  smart  figures  of  speech; 
his  remarks,  even  on  the  gravest  subjects,  are  as  full  of 
illustrations  as  a  pudding  of  plums.  Thus,  observing 
that  they  that  govern  most  make  least  noise,  he  adds: 
"You  see  that  when  they  row  in  a  barge,  they  that  do 
drudgery,  work,  and  slash,  and  puff,  and  sweat,  while  he 
that  governs  sits  quietly  at  the  stern,  and  is  scarcely 
seen  to  stir."  On  the  vexed  question  of  convocation,  he 
insists  on  the  presence  of  laymen  in  the  synod,  to  over 
look  the  clergy,  lest  they  spoil  the  civil  work;  just  as 
when  the  good  woman  puts  a  cat  into  the  milk-house  to 


THE   GREAT   CONVERSERS.  23 

kill  a  mouse,  she  sends  her  maid  after  the  cat,  lest  the 
cat  should  eat  up  the  cream.  We  fear  the  great  scholar 
was  not  overstocked  with  gallantry;  again  and  again  he 
drops  a  remark  which  shows  that,  if  not  a  woman-hater, 
he  was  a  decided  woman-mocker.  "Tis  reason,"  he 
says,  "a  man  that  will  have  a  wife  should  be  at  the 
charge  of  her  trinkets,  and  pay  all  the  scores  she  sets 
on  him.  He  that  will  keep  a  monkey,  'tis  fit  he  should 
pay  for  the  glasses  he  breaks."  Of  the  Sabbath  he  asks : 
"Why  should  I  think  all  the  Fourth  Commandment 
belongs  to  me,  when  all  the  Fifth  does  not  ?  What  land 
will  the  Lord  give  me  for  honoring  my  father  ?  It  was 
spoken  to  the  Jews,  with  reference  to  the  Land  of  Ca 
naan;  but  the  meaning  is,  if  I  honor  my  parents,  God 
will  also  bless  me."  To  preachers  he  gives  the  following 
admirable  advice:  "First  in  your  sermons  use  your 
logic,  and  then  your  rhetoric.  Ehetoric  without  logic 
is  like  a  tree  with  leaves  and  blossoms,  but  no  root. 
That  rhetoric  is  best  which  is  most  seasonable  and  most 
catching.  An  instance  we  have  in  that  old  blunt  com 
mander  at  Cadiz,  who  showed  himself  a  good  orator,  being 
about  to  say  something  to  his  soldiers  (which  he  was  not 
used  to  do),  he  made  them  a  speech  to  this  purpose: 
'Wliat  a  shame  will  it  be,  you  Englishmen,  that  feed 
upon  good  beef  and  brewess,  to  let  those  rascally  Span 
iards  beat  you,  that  eat  nothing  but  oranges  and  lemons? 
And  so  put  more  courage  into  his  men  than  he  could 
have  done  with  a  more  learned  oration." 

It  is  said  to  be  impossible  to  read  Bacon's  Essays 
for  the  fiftieth  time  without  being  struck  by  some  new 
and  original  remark,  or  seeing  some  thought  placed  in 
a  new  and  original  light.  Their  suggestiveness,  the  in 
exhaustible  aliment  they  supply  to  our  own  thoughts, 
is  the  grand  characteristic  of  all  Bacon's  writings;  and 


24  THE  GREAT  CONVER8ERS. 

therefore  we  cannot  but  deplore,  as  a  hiatum  valde  de- 
Jlendum,  the  lack  of  any  report  of  his  conversation. 
How  well  he  understood  the  proprieties  and  delicacies, 
as  well  as  the  value  of  "discourse,"  is  shown  by  his 
essay  on  that  subject.  The  few  sayings  of  his  that  have 
been  preserved  are  as  wise,  weighty,  and  dense  with 
thought  as  his  printed  aphorisms.  Ben  Jonson,  a  severe 
judge,  who  was  chary  of  his  praise,  tells  us  that  "no 
man  ever  spoke  more  neatly,  more  pressly,  more  weight 
ily,  or  suffered  less  emptiness,  less  idleness,  in  what  he 
uttered.  His  hearers  could  not  cough,  or  look  aside 
from  him,  without  loss.  The  fear  of  every  man  who 
heard  him  was  lest  he  should  make  an  end." 

Disraeli  remarks  that  many  a  great  wit  has  thought 
the  wit  it  was  too  late  to  speak,  and  many  a  great 
reasoner  has  only  reasoned  when  his  opponent  has  dis 
appeared.  Conversation  with  such  men  is  a  losing 
game.  Profound  thinkers  are  often  helpless  in  society, 
while  shallow  men  have  nimble  and  ready  minds.  Mont- 
belliard  utterly  eclipsed  his  friend  Buffon  in  conversation ; 
but  when  they  took  their  pens,  a  vast  interval  separated 
them;  he  whose  pen  dropped  the  honey  and  the  music 
of  the  bee,  handled  a  pen  of  iron;  while  Buffon's  was 
the  soft  pencil  of  the  philosophical  painter  of  nature. 
Of  Cowley  and  Killigrew,  Denham  wrote: 

Had  Cowley  ne'er  spoke,  Killigrew  ne'er  writ, 
Combined  in  one,  they  had  made  a  matchless  wit. 

Prolific  as  was  the  age  of  Elizabeth  in  splendid 
talkers,  it  was  not,  perhaps,  till  the  next  century,  in 
the  reign  of  Louis  Quatorze,  that  conversation,  as  an 
art,  culminated.  It  was  in  Paris,— that  marvellous  city 
where,  as  Victor  Hugo  says,  the  grandiose  and  the  bur 
lesque  harmonize,  and  where  the  same  mouth  can  blow 


THE   GREAT   CONVERSERS.  25 

to-day  into  the  trumpet  of  the  last  judgment,  and  to 
morrow  into  the  penny- whistle, — that  the  diseur  was  in 
his  glory.  The  Grand  Monarque,  himself  a  brilliant, 
epigrammatic  talker,  gave  the  cue  to  his  court,  and  a 
wit  of  the  time 

Hardly  his  mouth  could  ope, 
But  out  there  flew  a  trope, 

or  smart  saying,  which  darted  like  an  electric  spark 
through  all  the  circles  of  the  capital.  It  has  been  aptly 
said  that  the  words  which  were  the  counters  at  the 
Court,  were  as  choice  as  the  counters  they  used  at 
cards;  it  was  as  if  diamonds  had  been  declared  a  legal 
tender.*  Honors  were  conferred  by  the  King  in  bon-mots, 
and  appointments  communicated  in  jeux  $  esprit.  "If 
I  had  known  a  more  deserving  person,"  he  would  say, 
"I  would  have  selected  him."  When  Conde  returned 
from  the  battle  of  Beuef,  Louis  advanced  to  the  head 
of  the  staircase  to  meet  his  great  general.  The  latter, 
ascending  slowly,  from  the  effects  of  the  gout,  apolo 
gized  to  His  Majesty  for  making  him  wait.  "My 
cousin,"  was  the  reply,  "do  not  hurry;  no  one  could 
move  more  quickly  who  was  loaded  with  laurels  as  you 
are."  There  is  no  pleasanter  intellectual  distraction, — 
no  better  way  of  cheating  one's  dreary  hours  of  their 
ennui,—  than  by  dipping  into  the  Ana  of  this  period, 
and  listening  to  the  chit-chat,  the  pleasantries  and  pun 
gent  sayings  of  the  wits,  courtiers,  and  men  of  letters. 
They  unite  the  elegance  and  polish  of  Chesterfield  with 
the  keenness  and  terseness  of  Talleyrand  and  Voltaire. 
Even  foreigners,  from  the  frozen  North,  are  infected 
with  the  wit  of  the  capital  on  coming  into  it;  and 
they  scarcely  begin  to  breathe  its  atmosphere  before 
their  icy  natures  thaw  and  their  mouths  drop  fine  say- 


26  THE   CHEAT  CONVERSERS. 

ings.  When  Christina,  of  Sweden,  came  to  Paris,  and 
the  great  ladies  rushed  to  kiss  her, — "Why,"  she  ex 
claimed,  "they  seem  to  take  me  for  a  gentleman  1"  In 
fact,  as  an  English  essayist  remarks,  "While  we  read 
the  Ana  of  this  period,  the  air  seems  prickly  with 
epigrams.  They  are  as  thick  as  fire-flies." 

Lord  Stanhope  tells  a  story  of  a  Scotchman  who,  in 
the  days  of  gambling  and  hard  drinking,  was  heard 
to  say:  "I  tell  you  what,  sir,  I  just  think  that  conver 
sation  is  the  bane  of  society."  Such  must  have  been 
the  opinion  of  many  persons  in  England  when  Niebuhr, 
the  German  historian,  visited  that  country,  for  he  com 
plains  bitterly  of  the  superficiality  and  insipidity  of 
nearly  all  the  conversations  he  listened  to,  a&  being 
absolutely  depressing.  Yet  it  was  in  that  same  "  silver- 
coasted  isle "  that  had  lived  and  flourished,  only  a  gen 
eration  before,  Samuel  Johnson,  the  Alexander  of  the 
conversational  realm,  to  whose  iron  rule  the  accom 
plished  Reynolds,  the  luminous  and  learned  Gibbon,  the 
many-tongued  Jones,  the  inimitable  Garrick,  the  classic 
Langton,  and  even  the  eloquent  Burke,  were  willing  to 
bow;  and  what  talker  did  ever  Germany  produce  to 
rival  Johnson  ?  To  discuss  questions  of  taste,  of  learn 
ing,  of  casuistry,  in  language  so  exact  and  forcible  that 
it  might  have  been  printed  without  the  alteration  of  a 
word,  was  to  him,  as  Macaulay  has  remarked,  no  exer 
tion,  but  a  pleasure.  He  loved,  as  he  said,  to  fold  his 
legs,  and  have  his  talk  out;  and  he  loved  especially  to 
talk  with  those  who  were  able  to  send  him  back  every 
ball  that  he  threw.  Sluggish  by  nature,  and  averse 
to  the  drudgery  of  composition,  he  found  conversation 
to  be  a  necessity  of  his  vigorous  and  teeming  intellect. 
It  was  not  merely  a  means  of  amusement  or  recreation, 
however;  it  was  generally  a  struggle  of  wits, —  a  gladi- 


THE   GREAT   COXVERSERS.  27 

atonal  contest, —  a  literal  fight,  in  which  he  must  either 
conquer  or  die.  Reading  everything,  and  forgetting 
nothing;  having  all  his  knowledge  at  his  tongue's  end; 
possessing  a  powerful  and  piercing  understanding,  a 
fertile  fancy,  and  an  imperial  command  of  language ;  he 
seemed  to  be,  in  one  person,  the  Goliah  and  the  David 
of  conversation, —  strong  to  wield  a  spear  that  was  as 
a  weaver's  beam,  and  nimble  to  whirl  a  pebble  from 
a  sling.  Blunt  in  his  contradiction ;  merciless  in 
his  sarcasm;  ruling  like  a  despot  in  his  circle;  he  yet 
displayed  such  a  wealth  of  resources,  that,  whatever 
lack  there  might  be  of  courtesy,  there  was  none  of 
interest.  His  powerful  logic;  his  prompt  and  keen  re 
torts;  his  pithy  and  sage  remark;  his  apt  quotation; 
his  caustic  wit;  his  princely  command  of  language;  his 
intense  positivism,  dogmatism,  and  bow-wow  manner; 
his  mingled  cynicism,  melancholy,  pathos,  and  tender 
ness, —  made  him  one  of  the  mightiest  talkers  that 
ever  lived.  It  has  been  truly  said  that  his  vivid,  pithy 
talk  spoiled  men  for  everything  that  was  not  at  once  both 
weighty  and  smart.  "It  was  at  once  gay  and  potent; 
its  playfulness  resembling  the  ricochetting  of  sixty- 
eight  pounders,  which  bound  like  India-rubber  balls, 
yet  batter  down  fortresses."  Contemporary  with  John 
son,  though  not  of  the  club,  was  Home  Tooke,  who, 
nimble-witted  and  full  of  learning,  overflowed  with  an 
interminable  babble.  Yet  he  was  no  mere  babbler,  but 
had  " cut-and-come-again "  in  him, — "tongue  with  a 
garnish  of  brains." 

Contemporary  also  with  Johnson,  though  younger, 
was  "Auld  Scotia's"  greatest  bard,  who  added  collo 
quial  genius  to  his  other  gifts.  That  the  man  who 
dashed  off  Tarn  O'Shanter  in  a  single  day,  and  of 
whose  terse,  caustic,  and  humorous  lines  and  sentences 


28  THE   GREAT   CONVERSERS. 

so  many  hundreds  have  passed  like  iron  into  the  blood 
of  our  daily  speech,  was  a  charming  talker,  we  should 
infer,  as  a  matter  of  course.  The  Duchess  of  Gordon 
said,  somewhat  coarsely,  in  allusion  to  the  fiery  sleet 
of  the  poet's  discourse,  that  he  could  talk  her  off  her 
legs.  In  the  next  age  we  have  Sir  Waller  Scott, 
whose  conversation  was  not  brilliant,  but  frank,  hearty, 
picturesque,  and  dramatic.  He  was  a  capital  listener 
as  well  as  a  good  talker,  and  had  the  rare  faculty  of 
appreciating  a  good  thing  from  the  humblest  source. 
He  pronounced  George  Ellis  the  first  converser  he 
ever  knew,  and  expressed  the  opinion  that  the  higher 
order  of  genius  is  not  favorable  to  conversational  ex 
cellence.  That  Byron  was  a  splendid  talker  none  can 
doubt  "His  more  serious  conversation,"  said  Shelley, 
"  is  a  sort  of  intoxication ;"  it  was  now  Childe  Harold, 
now  Manfred,  now  Don  Juan,  and  anon  the  quint 
essence  of  all  together. 

It  is  said  that,  in  the  days  of  Jekyll,  Mackintosh, 
and  Sydney  Smith,  society  had  no  member  more  popu 
lar  than  William  Wilberforce.  Madame  de  Stael  pro 
nounced  him  the  most  brilliant  converser  she  had  met 
with  in  England.  Wit,  it  has  been  said,  may  either 
pervade  a  man's  conversation,  or  be  condensed  in  par 
ticular  passages  of  it, —  as  the  electric  current  may 
either  be  diffused  through  the  atmosphere,  or  flash 
across  it  Wilberforce's  wit  was  of  the  former  kind; 
he  had  no  terse  and  pregnant  jests,  yet  whatever  he 
said  was  amusing  or  interesting.  Sometimes  Sir  Francis 
Bacon  would  supply  the  text,  and  sometimes  Sir  John 
Sinclair;  but  whether  he  fused  the  pure  gold  of  the 
sage,  or  brayed,  as  in  a  mortar,  the  crotchets  of 
the  simpleton,  the  comment  was  irresistibly  charm* 
ing,  though  no  memory  could  retain  the  glowing,  pic- 


THE   GREAT   CONVERSERS.  29 

turesque,  or  comic  language  in  which  it  was  de 
livered.  Mackintosh,  his  contemporary,  must  have  been, 
we  think,  a  wearisome  talker,  in  spite  of, —  or,  rather, 
on  account  of, —  his  prodigious  learning;  though  Sydney 
Smith  pronounces  him  the  most  brilliant  and  instruc 
tive  talker  he  ever  knew;  and  Robert  Hall  is  reported 
to  have  said:  "I  have  been  with  Mackintosh  this  morn 
ing;  but,  oh!  sir,  it  was  like  the  Euphrates  pouring 
itself  into  a  teacup."  Sir  James  had  little  verbal 
wit;  brilliant  repartees,  pungent  sayings,  concentrated 
and  epigrammatic  remarks,  were  not  his  forte.  He  was 
"luminous,  lettered,  and  long-memoried."  The  shrewd, 
masculine  Joanna  Baillie  calls  him  a  clever  talker; 
"but  he  tried  me  very  much,  though  my  sister  once 
repeated  to  me  seventeen  things  he  said  worth  remem 
bering,  one  morning  at  breakfast.  Another  lady,  in  de 
scribing  his  soft  Scotch  voice,  said :  "  Mackintosh  played 
on  your  understanding  with  a  flageolet,  Macaulay  with 
a  trumpet."  Perhaps  the  highest  merit  of  Mackintosh's 
talk  was  that  it  enriched  other  men  mentally,  without 
their  being  aware  of  the  debt.  He  conveyed  his  ideas 
so  skillfully  and  unobtrusively  as  to  make  his  hearers 
believe  them  their  own.  He  has  been  described  as  the 
converse  of  a  pickpocket,  with  all  the  skill  of  en 
richment  which  that  ingenious  individual  uses  for 
impoverishing. 

To  Sydney  Smith's  colloquial  powers  we  can  but  bare 
ly  advert ;  who  could  do  justice  to  them  in  a  touch-and- 
go  notice?  We  can  think  of  no  great  converser  whom  we 
would  have  walked  more  miles  to  hear.  He  talked,  not 
for  display,  but,  as  a  bird  sings,  because  he  could  not 
help  it;  because  he  was  mad  with  spirits;  because  his 
mind  was  a  spring  bubbling  over  with  ideas,  and,  as 
he  said,  he  must  speak  or  burst.  He  had  no  elaborate 


30  THE   GREAT  CONVERSER8. 

impromptus,  no  cut-and-dry  repartees;  he  never  lay 
perdu,  seeking  to  draw  the  conversation  into  an  am 
bush,  that  he  might  give  play  to  his  sharpshooters, 
when  he  had  tricked  men  within  his  reach.  His  prac 
tice  was,  as  he  said,  to  fire  right  across  the  table,  and 
to  talk  upon  any  subject  that  was  started,  rarely  start 
ing  anything  of  his  own.  Though  the  prince  of  wits, 
he  was  no  mere  joker,  or  provoker  of  barren  laughter. 
There  was  always  plenty  of  bread  to  his  sack.  Having 
as  much  wit  as  a  man  without  a  grain  of  his  sense,  he 
had  as  much  sense  as  a  man  without  a  spark  of  his 
wit.  His  jests  always  contained  a  thought  worth  trea 
suring  for  its  own  sake,  independently  of  the  brilliant 
vehicle, —  the  value  of  a  hundred  pounds  sterling  of 
sense,  condensed  into  a  cut  and  polished  diamond. 
Byron  calls  him 

The  loudest  wit  I  ever  was  deafened  with ; 

and  it  is  said  that,  when  he  and  Macaulay  were  in 
company,  they  set  the  table  in  confusion,  appalled  quiet 
people,  made  them  eat  the  wrong  dishes,  and  drink  the 
wrong  wines.  His  favorite  maxim  was:  take  as  many 
half  minutes  as  you  can  get,  but  never  take  more  than 
half  a  minute  without  pausing,  and  giving  others  an 
opportunity  to  strike  in;  and  he  vowed  that  a  clever 
acquaintance  of  his,  who  talked  on  the  opposite  princi 
ple,  was  the  identical  Frenchman  who  murmured,  as 
he  was  anxiously  watching  a  rival,  "  S'il  crache  ou 
toufse,  il  est  perdu  .' " 

Was  Macaulay  a  fine  converger?  It  is  hard  to  say. 
The  name  which  Sydney  Smith  gave  him, — "a  book 
in  breeches," — would  imply  that  he  was  a  monologueist, 
not  a  converser.  In  his  talk  there  was  the  same 
impetuous  volubility  which  we  find  in  his  essays;  as 


THE   GREAT   CONTERSERS.  31 

some  one  said  of  his  speeches,  all  you  thought  of  in 
listening  to  Macaulay,  was  an  express  train,  which  did 
not  stop  even  at  the  chief  stations.  His  conversation 
teemed  with  thought,  criticism,  quotation,  and  illustra 
tion;  but  there  was  too  much  epigram,  too  much 
glitter,  too  much,  in  short,  of  the  rhetorician,  to  make 
it  thoroughly  enjoyable.  Our  countryman,  Prescott, 
who  often  met  him  in  society  in  1850,  describes  his 
conversation  as  bemg  "like  the  unintermitting  jerks  of 
a  pump."  "I  do  not  believe,"  Sydney  Smith  used  to 
say,  "that  Macaulay  ever  did  hear  my  voice."  But, 
though  he  took  the  lion's  share  of  the  conversation,  it 
was  not  from  arrogance,  or  a  desire  to  monopolize  the 
attention  of  the  company,  but  simply  because  the 
stream  welled  forth  from  a  full  mind  and  a  prodigious 
memory.  When  he  launched  upon  a  subject,  there  was 
no  hope  of  arresting  his  voyage,  nor  any  wish  to  do  so. 
Commencing  with  the  remotest  beginning  of  his  theme, 
hardly  "skipping  the  deluge," — just  as  he  begins  his 
History  of  James  II.  with  the  Phoenicians, —  he  would 
roll  on  a  mighty  flood,  gathering  volume  and  power 
at  every  moment,  till  there  seemed  no  reason  why  the 
talk  should  ever  cease ;  no  more  than  for  the  Amazon 
to  run  diy,  or  time  to  pause  in  its  flight.  The  talk 
had  some  of  Milton's  organ  roll,  and  was  only  to  be 
closed  by  Milton's  organ  stop. 

The  poet  Rogers,  according  to  Byron,  was  silent  and 
severe.  -When  he  did  talk,  he  talked  well;  and  on  all 
subjects  of  taste,  his  delicacy  of  expression  was  as  pure 
as  his  poetry.  Unfortunately,  he  was  noted  for  the  in 
dulgence  of  a  "critical"  spirit,  which  became  at  last  so 
formidable  that  his  guests  might  have  been  seen"  manceu- 
vering  which  should  leave  the  room  last,  so  as  not  to 
be  the  target  of  his  shafts;  and  it  was  said  that  he 


32  THE   GREAT  CONVERSERS. 

made  his  way  in  the  world,  as  Hannibal  made  his 
across  the  Alps,  with  vinegar.  He  was  aware  of  his 
propensity,  and  accounted  for  it  thus:  "When  I  was 
young,  I  found  that  no  one  would  listen  to  my  civil 
speeches,  because  I  had  a  very  small  voice;  so  I  began 
to  say  ill-natured  things,  and  then  people  began  to 
attend  me."  Among  his  witty  sayings,  one  of  the  hap 
piest  was  a  hit  at  the  restlessness  of  Moore:  "Moore 
dines  in  one  place,  wishing  he  was  dining  in  another 
place,  with  an  opera-ticket  in  his  pocket  which  makes 
him  wish  he  was  dining  nowhere."  "Is  that  the  con 
tents  you  are  looking  at?"  asked  an  anxious  author, 
who  saw  Rogers's  eye  fixed  on  a  list  at  the  commence 
ment  of  a  presentation  copy  of  a  new  work.  "No," 
said  the  poet,  pointing  to  the  list  of  subscribers,  "the 
rfwcontents." 

That  Charles  Lamb  must  have  been  a  charming 
converser,  no  one,  except  those  who  lack  the  slight 
idiosyncrasy  necessary  for  the  full  appreciation  of  his 
writings,  can  doubt  He  always  made,  we  are  told,  the 
best  pun  and  the  best  remark  in  the  course  of  the 
evening.  His  serious  conversation  was  his  best.  No 
other  person,  according  to  Hazlitt,  ever  stammered  out 
such  fine,  piquant,  deep,  eloquent  things  in  half-a-dozen 
half-sentences  as  he  did.  "His  jests  scald  like  tears, 
and  he  probes  a  question  with  a  play  upon  words. 
What  a  keen,  laughing,  hair-brained  vein  of  homefelt 
truth!  What  choice  venom!  How  often  did  we  cut 
into  the  haunch  of  letters,  while  we  discussed  the 
haunch  of  mutton  on  the  table!  How  we  skimmed  the 
cream  of  criticism!  How  we  got  into  the  heart  of 
controversy!  How  we  picked  out  the  marrow  of  au 
thors!"  To  Lamb's  conversation  we  might  apply  the 
words  spoken  of  another  in  Julian  and  Maddalo ; — 


THE   GBEAT  CONVERSEES.  33 

His  wit 

And  subtle  talk  would  cheer  the  winter  night, 
And  make  me  know  myself;  —  and  the  fire-light 
Would  flash  upon  our  faces,  till  the  day 
Might  dawn,  and  make  me  wonder  at  my  stay. 

Among  the  minor  talkers  of  England,  James  Smith, 
one  of  the  authors  of  that  famous  hit,  "The  Kejected 
Addresses," — of  which  a  Leicester  clergyman  said,  "I 
do  not  see  why  they  should  have  been  rejected;  I  think 
some  of  them  were  very  good," — must  have  been  one 
of  the  most  charming.  He  was  not  very  witty  or  bril 
liant,  it  is  said,  but  had  an  inexhaustible  fund  of 
amusement  and  information,  with  lightness,  liveliness, 
and  good  sense.  His  memory  was  prodigious,  but  it 
was  principally  stored  with  the  choicest  morsels  from 
the  standard  English  poets,  comic  writers,  and  drama 
tists;  and  like  Mackintosh,  as  described  by  Sydney 
Smith,  he  so  managed  it  as  to  make  it  a  source  of 
pleasure  and  instruction,  rather  than  "that  dreadful 
engine  of  colloquial  oppression  into  which  it  is  some 
times  erected."  Among  his  reported  good  things  are 
the  following:  To  a  gentleman  of  the  same  name,  who 
occupied  lodgings  in  the  same  house  with  him,  and 
who  was  constantly  receiving  his  letters,  he  said :  "  This 
is  intolerable,  sir,  and  you  must  quit/'  "Why  am  I 
to  quit  more  than  you  ?"  "  Because  you  are  James  the 
Second,  and  must  abdicate"  Mr.  Bentley  proposed  to 
establish  a  periodical  to  be  called  "The  Wit's  Miscel 
lany,"  to  which  Smith  objected  that  the  title  promised 
too  much.  When  the  publisher  called  to  tell  him  that 
he  had  profited  by  the  hint,  and  resolved  on  calling  it 
"  Bentley's  Miscellany,"  Smith  asked :  "  Isn't  that  going 
a  little  too  far  the  other  way?" 

Painters   are  usually  quiet,  thoughtful,  silent  men, 


84  THE  GREAT  CONVERSERS. 

but,  for  that  very  reason  perhaps,  when  they  do  speak, 
usually  speak  to  the  point  Not  caring  to  shine,  tin  v 
shine  the  more.  Northcote,  judging  by  Hazlitt's  speci 
mens,  must  have  been  a  capital  talker.  He  had  the 
faculty,  which  in  Charles  II.  shone  so  preeminently,  of 
telling  a  story  or  anecdote  again  and  again,  with  all  the 
freshness  and  point  of  the  first  telling.  "His  face," 
says  Hazlitt,  "is  as  a  book.  There  needs  no  marks  of 
interjection  or  interrogation  to  what  he  says.  His 
thoughts  bubble  up  and  sparkle,  like  beads  on  old 
wine." 

The  brilliancy  of  Madame  De  Stael's  conversation 
has  passed  into  a  proverb ;  it  triumphed  so  far  over  the 
plainness  of  her  features,  that  Curran  said  that  she  had 
the  power  of  talking  herself  into  a  beauty.  Though  she 
talked  often  for  display,  she  talked  still  more  for  self- 
improvement,  and  drew  both  her  inspiration  and  her 
literary  material  largely  from  conversation.  Her  genius 
was  fed  so  exclusively  through  her  faculty  of  hearing — 
she  used  her  eyes  so  little  in  acquiring  materials  for 
her  books — that  it  has  been  said  that  she  might  almost 
as  well  have  been  blind.  Except  out  of  respect  to  cus 
tom,  she  avows  she  would  not  open  her  window  to  see 
the  Bay  of  Naples  for  the  first  time,  whereas  she  would 
travel  five  hundred  leagues  to  talk  with  a  clever  man 
whom  she  had  never  met.  Her  chief  fault  as  a  talker 
was  her  racehorse  rapidity  of  tongue.  Byron  called  her 
society  "an  avalanche ;"  and  Schiller  complained  that,  in 
order  to  follow  her,  one  had  absolutely  to  convert  him 
self  wholly  into  an  organ  of  hearing. 

Of  all  the  great  talkers  of  ancient  or  modern  times, 
the  Coryphaeus,  or  Jupiter  Tonans,  who  "  Sternhold  him 
self  out-Sternholded,"  was  unquestionably  Samuel  Tay 
lor  Coleridge.  Though  eulogized  so  often  as  a  converser, 


THE   GKEAT  CONVERSEBS.  35 

he  was,  in  fact,  rather  a  lecturer,  preacher,  declaimer, 
or  thinker  aloud,  and  poured  forth  his  brilliant,  unbro 
ken  monologues  of  two  or  three  hours'  duration  to 
listeners  so  bewitched  and  fascinated, —  so  dazzled  by  the 
light  which  he  threw  upon  every  subject,  even  the  dull 
est,  as  the  sun  turns  the  dreariest  vapors  into  clouds  of 
gold, —  so  charmed  by  the  words,  so  rich,  so  rotund,  so 
many-hued,  ttyat  passed  before  their  gaze  like  a  flight  of 
purple  birds,  —  that,  like  Adam,  whose  ears  were  filled 
with  the  eloquence  of  an  archangel,  the  hearers  "  forgot 
all  place, —  all  seasons  and  their  change."  The  enthu 
siastic  Hazlitt,  the  conscientious  John  Foster,  and  the 
severely-critical  De  Quincey,  alike  exhaust  their  superla 
tives  in  testifying  to  his  power.  "He  spun  daily,"  says 
the  latter,  "from  the  loom  of  his  own  magical  brain, 
theories  more  gorgeous  far,  and  supported  by  a  luxury 
of  images  such  as  no  German  that  ever  breathed  could 
have  emulated  in  his  dreams."  In  his  best  moments,  he 
was  one  of  the  most  suggestive  and  instructive  of  talk 
ers, — a  teacher  of  teachers.  The  value  of  his  discourses 
lay  not  so  much  in  the  positive  knowledge  that  they 
communicated,  as  in  the  intellectual  stimulus  they  sup 
plied,  the  spirit  of  inquiry  they  provoked,  the  self- 
ignorance  and  superficiality  of  which  they  made  men 
conscious,  and  the  great  basal  principles  which  they  re 
vealed.  Much  of  the  effect  of  Coleridge's  eloquence 
was  owing,  no  doubt,  to  the  charms  of  his  manner ;  for 
his  voice,  it  is  said,  was  naturally  soft  and  good ;  and 
though  it  had  contracted  itself  into  a  plaintive  snuffle 
and  sing-song,  so  that  his  phrases  of  German  termi 
nology,  "object"  and  "subject,"  were  nasally  organized 
into  "om-m-ject"  and  " sum-m-ject,"  with  "a  kind  of 
solemn  shake  or  quaver  as  he  rolled  along,"  yet  there 
was  a  dreamy  soothing  in  his  accents,  it  is  said,  of  irre- 


36  THE  GREAT  CONVER8ERS. 

sistible  power,  especially  when  poetry  and  imagination 
were  the  theme  of  his  high  argument.  But  the  most 
brilliant  eloquence  tires  at  last,  and  even  that  of  the 
Highgate  sage  failed  sometimes  of  its  witching  effect 
upon  the  hearer's  ears.  "To  sit  eternally,  as  a  mere 
bucket,  and  be  pumped  into," — to  be  acted  on  forever, 
and  never  to  react,  —  is  what  no  human  being,  except  a 
dunce,  can  long  endure;  and  even  those  who  bowed  to 
this  "Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast-Table,"  felt,  after  they 
had  listened  to  a  soliloquy  of  five  hours'  duration,  that 
they  were  pumped  full,  and  cried,  "  Hold,  enough !"  Few 
will  fail  to  remember  the  story  told  by  Theodore  Hook, 
of  a  three-hours'  discourse  from  the  "  Rapt  one  with  the 
god-like  forehead,"  which  was  suggested  by  two  soldiers 
seated  by  the  roadside,  —  and  Hook's  characteristic  ob 
servation  at  the  close :  "  Thank  Heaven !  you  did  not 
see  a  regiment,  Coleridge,  for  in  that  case  you  would 
never  have  stopped."  Sir  Walter  Scott  describes  a  din 
ner  party,  at  which  he  was  equally  bored  by  a  most 
learned  and  everlasting  harangue  of  Coleridge  on  the 
Samothracian  mysteries,  Homer,  and  the  Wolfian  hy 
pothesis,  etc.,  etc.,  and  concludes  the  account  with  the 
impatient  exclamation,  "Zounds!  I  was  never  so  be- 
thnmped  with  words."  Yet  doubtless  there  were  others 
of  the  party  who  never  dreamed  that  they  were  either 
cudgeled  or  beflogged,  and  who  went  away  exclaiming 
to  themselves, — 

How  charming  is  divine  philosophy  1 

Not  harsh  and  crabbed,  as  dull  fools  suppose, 

Bat  musical  aa  is  Apollo's  lute. 

The  few  brilliant  sayings  of  Robert  Hall  that  are 
reported  by  his  biographer,  make  us  deeply  regret  that 
among  those  whose  darkness  he  illuminated  by  his 


THE   GREAT  C01TVERSERS.  37 

flashes  of  wit,  sarcasm,  and  humor,  there  was  no  one 
to  make  "  Bozziness "  his  business.  Many  of  his  sayings 
have  all  the  vividness  and  weight,  without  the  ponder- 
ousness,  of  Johnson's.  Foster  said  of  the  great  Baptist 
preacher  and  Coleridge,  that  the  former  commanded  his 
words  like  an  emperor,  the  latter  like  a  necromancer; 
but  that  in  conversation  they  seemed  to  change  their 
character;  there,  Coleridge  became  imperial, —  Hall,  ne 
cromantic.  His  words  flitted  and  flew  to  and  fro  like 
the  phantoms  of  enchantment,  while  those  of  the  poet 
held  on  a  stately  and  continuous  march.  In  spite  of 
his  acute  sufferings,  he  keenly  enjoyed  social  intercourse, 
often  saying,  "Don't  let  us  go  yet;  the  present  place 
is  the  best  place,"  when  the  company  was  about  to 
break  up.  In  the  intensity  of  his  likes  and  dislikes,  and 
in  the  freedom  of  his  personal  sarcasms,  he  strongly 
resembled  Johnson.  He  could  not  brook  a  difference 
of  opinion  upon  a  point  which  he  had  thoroughly  con 
sidered,  and  peremptorily  closed  the  debate  with  an 
expression  of  his  views. 

Hall's  friend,  John  Foster,  must  have  been  a  bril 
liant  talker,  if  we  may  judge  by  the  few  sayings  of  his 
that  have  been  reported.  In  mixed  company  he  was 
not  ready  to  pour  out  his  thoughts;  but  when  with 
congenial  companions,  he  could  summon,  as  with  a 
magician's  wand,  from  all  points  of  the  compass,  the 
profoundest  thoughts,  couched  in  the  happiest  language, 
and  illuminated  with  the  richest  imagery.  At  repartee 
he  was  especially  happy.  Of  certain  useless  worsted- 
work,  he  said  that  it  was  "red  with  the  blood  of  mur 
dered  time."  To  a  person  who  was  praising  the  piety 
of  the  Emperor  Alexander,  of  Russia,  he  replied  gravely, 
with  a  significant  glance:  "Yes,  sir,  a  very  good  man, — 
very  devout:  no  doubt  he  said  grace  before  he  swal 
lowed  Poland!" 


38  THE   GREAT  COXVERSERS. 

Hardly  less  marvellous  than  those  of  Coleridge  were 
the  conversational  powers  of  Thomas  De  Quincey.  All 
who  have  listened  to  his  "silver  talk,"  testify  to  its  in 
describable  charm,  as  it  welled  out  from  those  capacious, 
overflowing  cells  of  thought  and  memory  which  a  single 
word,  or  hint,  or  token  could  agitate.  Gilfillan,  in 
particular,  has  finely  described  his  small,  thin,  piercing 
voice,  winding  out  so  distinctly  his  subtleties  of  thought 
and  feeling, — his  long  and  strange  sentences  evolving 
like  a  piece  of  complicated  music;  and  the  Ettrick 
Shepherd,  in  the  Nodes,  addresses  him  as  one  having 
"the  voice  of  a  nicht-wanderin'  man,  laigh  and  lone, 
pitched  on  the  key  o'  a  wimblin'  burn  speakin'  to  itsel' 
in  the  silence,  aneath  the  moon  and  stars."  A  gentle 
man  who  visited  this  Aquinas-Rich ter  in  1854,  thus 
records  his  impressions  of  him  after  a  half-hour's  con 
versation:  "We  have  listened  to  Sir  William  Hamilton 
at  his  own  fireside,  to  Carlyle  walking  in  the  parks  of 
London,  to  Lamartine  in  the  midst  of  a  favored  few  at 
his  own  house,  to  Cousin  at  the  Sorbonne,  and  to  many 
others;  but  never  have  we  heard  such  sweet  music  of 
eloquent  speech  as  then  flowed  from  De  Quincey's 
tongue.  Strange  light  beamed  from  that  grief-worn 
face,  and  for  a  little  while  that  weak  body,  so  long  fed 
upon  by  pain,  seemed  to  be  clothed  with  supernatural 
youth." 

Eloquent  as  De  Quincey  was,  his  conversational 
powers  were  at  their  full  height  only  when  he  was 
under  the  influence  of  his  favorite  drug.  The  best 
time  to  hear  the  lion  roar  was  at  four  or  five  o'clock 
in  the  morning;  then,  when  recovering  from  the  stupor 
in  which  the  opium  had  plunged  him,  his  tongue 
seemed  touched  with  an  eloquence  almost  divine.  It  is 
a  curious  fact,  that  though  he  was  the  soul  of  cour- 


THE   GREAT  CONVEESEES.  39 

tesy,  he  never  for  a  moment  thought  of  adapting  his 
language  to  the  understanding  of  his  listener.  The  most 
illiterate  porter,  housemaid,  or  even  prowling  beggar,  he 
would  address  on  the  most  trivial  themes,  with  as 
much  pomp  of  rhetoric,  in  language  as  precise  and 
measured,  and  abounding  in  as  many  "long-tailed 
words  in  osity  and  ation,"  as  that  in  which  he  would 
have  addressed  an  Oxford  professor  on  a  vexed  point 
in  metaphysics,  or  Person  on  a  classical  emendation. 
Mrs.  Gordon,  in  her  life  of  Professor  Wilson,  has  given 
a  specimen  of  the  style  in  which  the  "Opium-Eater" 
was  wont  to  address  her  father's  housekeeper,  when 
directing  her  how  to  prepare  his  food;  and,  did  it 
come  from  a  less  trustworthy  source,  we  should  take 
the  order  as  a  burlesque  or  caricature.  Wishing  his 
meat  cut  with  the  grain,  he  would  say:  "Owing  to 
dyspepsia  affecting  my  system,  and  the  possibility  of 
any  additional  derangement  of  the  stomach  taking 
place,  consequences  incalculably  distressing  would  arise 
—  so  much  so,  indeed,  as  to  increase  nervous  irritation, 
and  prevent  me  from  attending  to  matters  of  over 
whelming  importance  —  if  you  do  not  remember  to  cut 
the  mutton  in  a  diagonal,  rather  than  a  longitudinal 
form."  No  wonder  that  the  cook, —  a  simple  Scotch 
woman, —  stood  aghast,  exclaiming,  "Weel,  I  never 
heard  the  like  o'  that  in  a'  my  days:  the  body  has  an 
awful  sicht  o'  words.  *  *  Mr.  De  Quinshey  would 
make  a  gran'  preacher,  though  I'm  thinking  a  hantle 
o'  the  folk  wouldna  ken  what  he  was  driving  at." 

Of  the  great  living  conversers,  Carlyle  stands  in  the 
front  rank,  if  one  can  be  called  such  who  rarely  con 
verses,  but  almost  always  harangues.  His  talk,  as  com 
monly  reported,  is  like  Dr.  Johnson's  laugh,  which  was 
"a  kind  of  good  humored  growl."  According  to  Mar- 


40  THE  GREAT  CONTERSERS. 

garet  Fuller,  he  allows  no  one  else  a  chance,  but  bears 
down  all  opposition,  not  only  by  his  wit  and  onset  of 
words,  resistless  in  their  sharpness  as  so  many  bayonets, 
but  by  actual  physical  superiority, —  raising  his  voice 
and  rushing  on  his  opponent  with  a  torrent  of  sound. 
"He  sings  rather  than  talks.  He  pours  upon  you  a 
kind  of  satirical,  heroical,  critical  poem,  with  regular 
cadences,  and  generally  catching  up,  near  the  begin 
ning,  some  singular  epithet,  which  serves  as  a  refrain 
when  his  song  is  full,  or  with  which,  as  with  a  knit 
ting-needle,  he  catches  up  the  stitches,  if  he  has 
chanced,  now  and  then,  to  let  fall  a  row.  *  *  His 
talk,  like  his  books,  is  full  of  pictures;  his  critical 
strokes,  masterly." 

To  make  a  good  talker,  genius  and  learning,  even 
wit  and  eloquence,  are  insufficient;  to  these,  in  all  or 
in  part,  must  be  added  in  some  degree  the  talents  of 
active  life.  The  character  has  as  much  to  do  with 
colloquial  power  as  has  the  intellect;  the  temperament, 
feelings,  and  animal  spirits,  even  more,  perhaps,  than 
the  mental  gifts.  "Napoleon  said  things  which  tell  in 
history  like  his  battles.  Luther's  Table-Talk  glows 
with  the  fire  that  burnt  the  Pope's  bull."  Caesar, 
Cicero,  Themistocles,  Lord  Bacon,  Selden,  Talleyrand, 
and,  in  our  own  country,  Aaron  Burr,  Jefferson,  Web 
ster,  and  Choate,  were  all,  more  or  less,  men  of  action. 
Sir  Walter  Scott  tells  us  that,  at  a  great  dinner  party, 
he  thought  the  lawyers  beat  the  Bishops  as  talkers, 
and  the  Bishops  the  wits.  Nearly  all  great  orators 
have  been  fine  talkers.  Lord  Chatham,  who  could 
electrify  the  House  of  Lords  by  pronouncing  the  word 
"Sugar,"  but  who  in  private  was  but  commonplace, 
was  an  exception ;  but  the  conversation  of  Pitt  and 
Fox  was  brilliant  and  fascinating, — that  of  Burke,  ram- 


THE   GREAT  CONVERSERS.  41 

bling,  but  splendid,  rich  and  instructive,  beyond  de 
scription.  The  latter  was  the  only  man  in  the  famous 
"Literary  Club"  who  could  cope  with  Johnson.  The 
Doctor  confessed  that  in  Burke  he  had  a  foeman  wor 
thy  of  his  steeL  On  one  occasion,  when  debilitated  by 
sickness,  he  said:  "That  fellow  calls  forth  all  my  pow 
ers.  Were  I  to  see  Burke  now,  it  would  kill  me."  At 
another  time  he  said:  "Burke,  sir,  is  such  a  man  that, 
if  you  met  him  for  the  first  time  in  the  street,  where 
you  were  stopped  by  a  drove  of  oxen,  and  you  and  he 
stepped  aside  to  take  shelter  but  for  five  minutes,  he'd 
talk  to  you  in  such  a  manner,  that  when  you  parted 
you'd  say  — '  This  is  an  extraordinary  man/  "  "  Can  he 
wind  into  a  subject  like  a  serpent,  as  Burke  does?"  asked 
Goldsmith  of  a  certain  talker.  Fox  said  that  he  had 
derived  more  political  information  from  Burke's  con 
versation  alone  than  from  books,  science,  and  all  his 
worldly  experience  put  together.  Moore  finely  says  of 
the  same  conversation,  that  it  must  have  been  like  the 
procession  of  a  Eoman  triumph,  exhibiting  power  and 
riches  at  every  step;  occasionally  mingling  the  low 
Fescennine  jest  with  the  lofty  music  of  the  march,  but 
glittering  all  over  with  the  spoils  of  a  ransacked 
world. 

Did  our  limits  permit,  we  might  speak  at  length  of 
"Conversation  Sharp,"  who  talked  "like  a  book;"  of 
Sheridan,  whose  talk,  when  his  tongue  was  loosened  by 
wine,  was  superb ;  of  Buckle,  who  could  keep  pace  with 
any  number  of  interlocutors,  on  any  given  number  of 
subjects,  from  the  abstrusest  point  of  the  abstrusest 
science  to  the  lightest  jeu  d'esprit,  and  talk  them  all 
down,  and  be  quite  ready  to  start  afresh;  of  Sterling, 
who,  in  brilliant  utterance  and  tongue-fence,  if  Carlyle 
say  truth,  bore  the  bell  from  all  competitors;  and  of 


42  THE   GREAT   CONVERSERS. 

Crabbe  Robinson,  of  whom  Rogers  once  said  at  a  break 
fast-party,  "  Oh,  if  there  is  any  one  here  who  wishes  to 
say  anything,  he  had  better  say  it  at  once,  for  Crabbe 
Robinson  is  coming."  But  we  must  forbear. 

The  literary  men  of  France  and  England  have  been 
famed  at  times  for  the  brilliancy  of  their  social  elo 
quence  ;  but  the  ancients  appear  to  have  made  far  more 
of  conversation  than  the  moderns,  for,  lacking  the 
immense  advantage  of  the  printing-press,  by  which 
thought  is  circulated  with  so  electrical  rapidity,  it  was 
chiefly  by  oral  means  that  they  were  compelled  to  com 
municate  with  their  fellow-men.  In  our  own  day  the 
art  of  conversation  is  fast  dying  out  The  dinner-table, 
the  supper-party,  and  the  rout,  are  no  longer  the  battle 
fields  in  which  are  tested  and  tried  the  shining  arms 
of  the  accomplished  scholar.  There  is  no  longer  the 
play  of  wit  and  raillery,  the  brilliancy,  the  concentration, 
the  rapid  glancing  at  a  hundred  subjects  in  succession, 
which  there  used  to  be.  The  attic  nights  of  Johnson, 
Burke,  and  Garrick, — of  Sheridan,  Moore,  Rogers,  and 
other  social  luminaries;  the  symposia  of  the  demi-gods, 
at  which,  with  their  cut-and-dry  impromptus,  their 
polished  and  prepared  repartees,  and  their  deliberate 
outbreaks  of  genius  and  of  fun,  they  won  undying  glory 
and  immediate  applause, — have  passed  away  forever,  and 
"the  age  of  calculators  and  economists"  has  succeeded. 

As  the  old  coach-roads  have  given  way  to  railways, 
so  conversation  has  given  way  to  the  press.  Men  wreak 
their  thoughts  upon  expression,  not  in  talk,  but  in 
"copy."  Instead  of  listening  to  literary  lions,  they  pre 
fer  to  crackle  The  Tribune  or  the  Times.  Newspapers, 
magazines,  reviews,  suck  up  the  intellectual  elements  of 
our  life,  like  so  many  electrical  machines  gathering  elec 
tricity  from  the  atmosphere  into  themselves.  Themes 


THE  GEEAT  CONTERSEE8.  43 

are  preempted  by  the  press,  and  their  freshness  and 
interest  exhausted  before  friends  have  encircled  "the 
mahogany"  in  the  evening.  Professional  litterateurs, 
especially,  are  becoming  less  and  less  inclined  to  post 
prandial  eloquence,  and  "lay  out"  far  less  than  they 
once  did  for  conversation.  They  have  too  keen  an  eye 
for  the  value  of  their  stock-in-trade,  not  to  be  niggard 
of  their  ideas  in  social  intercourse,  and  to  hoard  them 
up  for  reproduction,  at  some  auspicious  time,  in  a 
profit-yielding  form.  Not  merely  long  and  elaborate 
performances,  but  even  puns  and  conundrums,  are  now 
marketable  commodities.  The  pettiest  jokelet  has  a  cash 
value;  and  there  is  no  anecdote  so  trifling,  no  scrap 
of  knowledge  so  insignificant,  no  felicitous  expression 
of  an  old  truth,  or  dim  suggestion  of  a  new  one,  which 
may  not  be  converted  into  a  dime  or  a  dollar  by  the 
literary  miser  who  makes  the  acquaintance  of  the  peri 
odicals.  In  short,  the  entire  tendency  of  things  in 
these  latter  days  of  the  nineteenth  century  is  to  con 
tract  conversation  within  such  narrow  limits,  that  a 
fear  has  been  expressed  lest  some  further  development 
of  the  electric  telegraph  should  reduce  us  to  a  society 
of  mutes,  or  to  a  sort  of  insects,  communicating  by 
ingenious  antennae  of  our  own  invention. 


LITERARY  CLUBS. 


WHY  have  we  so  few  literary  clubs  in  our  western 
cities?  Is  it  because  there  are  not  men  enough 
in  them  who  have  sufficient  culture  to  enjoy  a  weekly 
or  monthly  interchange  of  thought  on  literary  and  social 
themes,  or  because  we  are  so  engrossed  with  worldly 
cares — so  interested  in  grain  and  beeves,  pine  boards, 
and  corner-lots, —  that  we  grudge  every  hour  that  is 
spent  in  a  way  that  does  not  swell  our  pile  of  green 
backs?  Perhaps  there  are  some  scholars  and  thinkers 
among  us  who  doubt  the  expediency  of  clubs  altogether; 
and  if,  by  the  term,  is  meant  a  society  such  as  are  the 
majority  of  those  in  our  eastern  cities  and  in  England, 
we  do  not  wonder  that  the  most  thoughtful  and  intelli 
gent  of  our  citizens  look  upon  them  with  distrust.  Clubs 
of  this  kind  are  composed  of  persons  of  similar  stand 
ing,  who  own  or  hire  a  building  for  their  common  resort, 
where  they  go  to  lounge,  chat,  hear  or  read  the  news, 
play  cards  or  chess,  drink,  get  a  good  meal  at  a  reduced 
price,  or  to  have  a  "grand  supper,."  in  which  all  join. 
They  pay  the  regular  charges,  have  the  run  of  the  house 
at  all  times  by  night  and  by  day,  and  the  place  is,  to 
many,  a  home. 

For  unmarried  men  such  a  place  has  many  charms ; 
it  affords  unrivalled  opportunities  for  reading,  conversa 
tion  and  refreshment,  and  many  an  hour  is  spent  there 
pleasantly,  if  not  profitably,  which  might  otherwise  drag 


LITERARY   CLUBS.  45 

heavily,  or  be  wasted  in  debasing  occupations.  But  upon 
a  married  man  the  influence  of  such  a  club  may  justly 
be  regarded  with  a  suspicious  eye.  Not  only  does  it 
consume  a  vast  amount  of  time,  of  which  his  wife  and 
children  can  ill  afford  to  be  cheated,  but  it  offers  amuse 
ments  and  pleasures  that  gradually  destroy  his  relish  for 
the  quiet  enjoyments  of  home  and  the  family  circle,  and 
fosters  a  habit  of  going  abroad  for  that  happiness  which 
should  be  sought  by  his  own  fireside,  among  those  to 
whom  he  is  bound  by  the  dearest  ties  that  can  bind  a 
human  being.  The  grand  suppers  of  such  clubs  are 
too  often  mere  scenes  of  debauchery,  where  intellectual 
conversation  is  unknown,  and  where  a  man's  merit  is 
estimated  by  the  length  of  time  during  which  he  can, 
Gargantua-like,  stuff  himself  with  "links  and  chitter 
lings,"  and  by  the  number  of  bottles  of  champagne  or 
sherry  which  he  can  carry  under  his  belt  without  roll 
ing  under  the  table.  There  is  a  roaring  hour  of  short 
lived  festivity,  the  very  violence  of  which  precludes  the 
possibility  of  true  enjoyment;  the  revellers  reel  to  their 
lodging-places  to  be  tortured  with  dyspepsia  and  night 
mare,  and  in  the  morning  they  awake  to  the  disagree 
able  experiences  of  headaches  and  soda  water. 

Even  in  England,  the  birthplace  of  the  club,  it  is 
beginning  to  be  felt  that  such  societies  have  another 
side  besides  the  one  commonly  presented  to  the  casual 
observer.  The  admirers  of  the  club  are  compelled  to 
admit  that  while  it  has  elegance,  ease,  comfort,  luxury, 
absence  of  care,  it  has  also  emptiness  and  ennui.  A 
time  comes  at  last  to  every  habitue  when  the  appetite 
palls,  when  the  senses  become  sated,  when  the  keen 
edge  of  the  sensibilities  is  blunted,  when  the  happiness 
ceases  to  satisfy  and  the  pleasures  lose  the  power  of 
pleasing.  The  man  loses  more  than  the  animal  gains. 


46  LITERARY   CLUBS. 

A  writer  in  a  London  journal  complains  that  there  is 
that  in  club  life,  at  best,  which  deoxygenizea  the  air 
of  its  fair  humanities  and  ethereal  spiritualities,  and,  the 
more  one  breathes  of  it,  the  less  he  lives.  The  truth 
is,  says  the  writer,  man  is  by  nature  a  home  being,  and 
needs  that  contact  with  feminine  natures,  that  harmo 
nizing  of  his  will  and  his  ways  with  those  of  another 
creature  of  a  finer  make  and  mould, —  that  discipline  of 
mind  and  heart  which  a  home,  and  nothing  but  a  home, 
affords, —  to  keep  him  in  his  best  estate,  and  develop 
what  is  finest  and  sweetest  and  noblest  in  his  many- 
sided  nature.  The  petty  cares,  the  minute  anxieties,  the 
infinite  littles  which  go  to  make  up  the  sum  of  human 
experience,  like  the  invisible  granules  of  powder,  give 
the  last  and  highest  polish  to  a  character.  The  sexes 
were  made  for  each  other;  it  is  from  the  other  that 
each  gets  the  most  and  the  best  of  the  material  for  its 
culture;  and  no  scheme  that  ignores  this  truth  can 
ever  succeed,  because  the  sentiments,  the  instincts,  the 
irrepressible  yearnings  of  human  nature,  are  all  against  it 
Such  are  not  the  societies  which  we  wish  to  estab 
lish.  The  clubs  we  would  have  formed  are  purely  lite 
rary,  like  the  Literary  Club  of  London,  formed  by  the 
wits  of  Johnson's  time,  and  of  which  he  was  the  mon 
arch —  or,  rather,  the  despot.  That  club  had  no  house 
of  its  own,  and,  consequently,  no  heavy  expenses,  but 
met  either  at  taverns,  or  at  the  houses  of  its  members. 
There  are  no  pleasanter,  no  more  profitable,  reunions 
than  the  clubs  of  our  own  day  that  are  thus  organized. 
Made  up  of  cultivated  and  thoughtful  men,  who  keenly 
feel  and  appreciate  the  benefits  of  social  intercourse,  and 
who  meet,  not  to  babble,  but  for  the  interchange  of  their 
ripest  thought,  and  because  they  know  that  the  brightest 
sparks  of  wit  and  wisdom  are  oftener  elicited  by  the 


LITERARY   CLUBS.  47 

friction  of  mind  with  mind  than  by  months  of  solitary 
cogitation  or  isolated  study,  they  call  into  exercise  the 
highest  social  qualities,  and  eminently  favor  all  generous 
culture.  There  you  may  meet  painters,  poets,  philoso 
phers,  statesmen,  clergymen,  lawyers,  doctors,  engineers, 
— representative  men  of  the  professions, —  who  love  to 
steal  an  evening  hour  or  two  from  the  busy  pursuits 
of  life,  and  engage  in  literary  colloquy,  wrestling  with 
some  amicable  antagonist,  or  pouring  out  the  "hived 
honey  of  the  mind"  for  the  delight  and  edification  of 
congenial  companions.  Such  a  meeting  is  not  a  robbery 
of  home.  It  sets  up  no  antagonism  with  domestic 
enjoyments  and  duties;  it  involves  no  costly  expendi 
ture,  no  waste  of  time;  it  is  no  wild  hotel  scramble  for 
excitement;  it  is  a  calm  and  healthful  recreation,  which 
refreshes  the  overtasked  brain,  soothes  the  jaded  nerves, 
pours  the  oil  of  joy  and  gladness  into  the  heart,  and 
prepares  one  to  fight  with  redoubled  vigor  and  courage 
the  battle  of  life. 

Such  a  club,  properly  managed,  has  other  merits 
besides  those  that  are  intellectual.  It  is  a  school  of  the 
heart, — a  university  for  the  training  of  kindly  feelings. 
There  is  a  wide  difference  between  general  acquaintance 
and  companionship.  You  may  salute  a  man,  and  ex 
change  compliments  with  him  daily,  yet  know  nothing 
of  his  character,  his  inmost  tastes  and  feelings, —  see  but 
a  single  phase  of  his  intellect;  while  the  converse  of  a 
few  hours,  in  the  unrestricted  freedom  of  a  club,  may 
disclose  the  treasures  of  his  heart  and  brain,  and  enable 
you  to  detect  the  nobleness  of  his  aims  and  the  redness 
of  his  blood.  It  has  been  justly  said  that  the  greatest 
discovery  of  our  lives  is  that  the  world  is  not  so  bad 
as,  in  the  first  disappointment  of  youth's  extravagant 
expectations,  we  are  disposed  to  regard  it.  The  pas- 


48  LITERARY   CLUBS. 

sage  from  boyhood  to  manhood  is  "over  the  bridge  of 
sighs;"  and  our  first  experiences  of  life  as  it  is, 
resemble  the  flavor  of  the  forbidden  apple — we  are 
enlightened  and  miserable.  Gladly  would  we  command 
the  secret  of  feeling  as  we  once  did;  but,  alas!  every 
day  takes  from  us  some  happy  error, —  some  charming 
illusion, —  never  to  return.  We  are  reasoned  or  ridi 
culed  out  of  all  our  jocund  mistakes,  till  we  are  just 
wise  enough  to  be  miserable,  and  we  exclaim  with 
Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu,  "To  my  extreme  mor 
tification,  /  find  myself  growing  wiser  and  wiser  every 
day."  But  a  time  comes,  at  length,  when  our  views 
are  more  just  We  leave  our  imaginary  Eden  with 
*'  solemn  step  and  slow,"  and  begin  to  appreciate  the 
good  qualities  of  those  whose  fnendship  we  thought 
hollow,  and  the  necessity  of  that  labor  which  we 
deemed  a  curse.  We  exchange  ecstacy  for  content,  and, 
"forgetting  the  four  rivers  of  our  ideal  heaven,  open 
our  eyes  to  the  manifold  beauties  of  earth, —  its  skies 
islanded  by  stars,  and  its  oceans  starred  by  islands;  its 
sunshines  and  calms,  and  the  goodness  of  its  great 
heart,  which  sends  forth  trees,  and  flowers,  and  fruits, 
for  our  benefit  and  exultation."  To  that  education  of 
mind  and  heart  which  insures  satisfaction  with  our 
lot, —  which  leads  us  to  enjoy  the  sweet  of  life  as  it 
comes  up,  while  we  laugh  at  the  bitter, —  which  stiffens 
our  muscles  and  sinews  for  the  tiger-like  struggles  of 
life, —  we  believe  that  well-conducted  clubs  conduce. 

Intercourse  is,  after  all,  man's  best  teacher.  "  Know 
thyself"  is  an  excellent  maxim;  but  even  self-know 
ledge  cannot  be  perfected  in  closets  and  cloisters, — 
nor  amid  lake  scenery,  and  on  the  sunny  side  of  the 
mountains.  Men  who  seldom  mix  with  their  fellows 
are  almost  sure  to  become  one-sided, —  the  victims  of 


LITERARY   CLUBS.  49 

fixed  ideas,  that  sometimes  lead  to  insanity.  Prejudices 
which,  if  exposed  to  the  sun  and  air  of  social  life, 
would  melt  into  air,  fix  themselves  down  as  with 
riveted  screw-bolts.  Confident  conclusions,  which  could 
not  walk  the  street  a  day  without  being  knocked  down 
like  bullies,  are  cherished  and  nursed  till  they  have 
become  the  very  tyrants  of  the  mind  which  has  engen 
dered  them.  It  was  but  natural  that  Zimmerman,  who 
was  the  Laureate  of  Solitude,  should  have  become  a 
lunatic.  Who,  that  knows  the  facts  of  Kousseau's  life, 
can  marvel  at  the  eccentricities  which  made  him  at 
once  the  wonder  and  the  laughing-stock  of  Europe? 
It  is  not  strange  that,  when  the  Man  of  the  Moun 
tain,  as  he  termed  himself,  after  having  been  cooped  up 
for  years,  almost  alone,  in  the  mountains  of  Switzer 
land,  descended  into  the  plain,  and  became  the  idol  of 
the  brilliant  circles  of  Paris,  his  vanity  and  egotism 
should  be  so  inordinate  as  to  amount  to  insanity.  The 
morbid  ingenuity  with  which  he  distorted  all  the  kind 
acts  of  his  friend,  David  Hume,  into  proofs  of  deceit 
and  jealousy, —  the  vanity  which  led  him  to  believe  that 
he,  lately  a  Genoese  watchmaker,  was  a  victim  of  uni 
versal  persecution  and  interdict,  and  that  not  only  the 
philosophers,  but  all  the  monarchs  of  Europe,  had 
leagued  to  crush  him, —  were  simply  the  result  of  a 
life  of  loneliness  and  solitude. 

Private  reading  and  study  are,  no  doubt,  necessary 
to  culture;  the  scholar  and  the  man  of  science  must 
shun  delights,  and  live  laborious  days,  if  they  would 
sound  the  depths  of  any  subject  whatever.  Like  all 
our  other  instincts,  that  of  solitude  has  its  ends.  It  is 
absolutely  necessary  to  rare  and  delicate  natures, —  at 
least,  at  times, —  to  protect  them  from  the  common 
place  world  around  them.  Mr.  Hamerton,  in  his 


50  LITERARY  CLUBS. 

"Intellectual  Life,"  justly  remarks,  that  if  Shelley  had 
not  disliked  general  society  as  he  did,  the  originality 
of  his  own  thinking  would  have  been  less  complete; 
the  influences  of  mediocre  people,  who,  of  course,  are 
always  in  the  majority,  would  have  silently,  but  surely, 
operated  to  the  destruction  of  that  unequalled  and  per 
sonal  delicacy  of  imagination  to  which  we  owe  what  is 
inimitable  in  his  poetry.  The  same  writer  further  adds, 
that  it  was  not  when  Milton  saw  most  of  the  world, 
but  in  the  forced  retirement  of  a  man  who  had  lost 
health  and  eyesight,  and  whose  party  was  hopelessly 
defeated,  that  he  composed  the  Paradise  Lost  It  was 
during  years  of  tedious  imprisonment,  that  Bunyan 
wrote  his  immortal  allegory.  There  is  no  lettered  man 
who  does  not  appreciate  the  saying  of  De  Senancour: 
"In  the  world  a  man  lives  in  his  own  age;  in  solitude, 
in  all  the  ages."^  But  conversation  is  as  necessary  as 
meditation  to  the  highest  culture.  And  what  is  more 
delightful  than  this  communion  of  thinkers?  Pleasant 
it  is  to  sit  in  a  library  or  study,  with  a  goodly  array 
of  wise  or  charming  books  about  you,  in  which  are 
preserved,  as  in  a  vial,  "  the  precious  life-blood "  of  the 
world's  master  spirits;  or,  with  the  choicest  of  those 
"  abstracts  and  brief  chronicles  of  the  times,"  the  news 
papers,  to  tell  how  flows  the  warm  life-blood  of  the 
world,  and  how  the  car  of  progress  goes  thundering 
along  the  highroads.  Pleasant  is  it,  with  paper  knife 
in  hand,  to  skim  the  contents  of  the  last  monthly 
magazines,  brimming  with  the  freshest  wit  and  wisdom 
of  the  day;  but  pleasanter  far  than  any  of  these,  is 
communion  with  living  men,  whose  conversation  is  full 
of  "that  seasoned  life  of  men  whidh  is  stored  up  in 
books,"  who  have  roamed  through  all  the  fields  of 
literature,  and,  gathering  the  choicest  flowers,  have 


LITERARY   CLUBS.  51 

i 

arranged  them  for  your  delight.  Reading  is  a  great 
pleasure;  but  it  is  solitary.  Byron  says: 

They  who  true  joy  would  win 

Must  share  it;  happiness  is  born  twin. 

True  as  this  generally  is,  it  is  doubly  true  of  literary 
enjoyment.  The  fullest  instruction  and  the  fullest 
enjoyment  are  never  derived  from  books,  till  we  have 
ventilated  the  ideas  thus  obtained  in  free  and  easy  chat 
with  others. 

The  mental  faculties  demand  exercise  as  truly  as 
the  bodily,  and  enjoy  it  as  keenly.  The  mind  that  is 
healthy  delights  in  the  glow  of  movement  and  contest. 
It  loves  to  meet  with  a  congenial  spirit, —  one  that  has 
sucked  the  sweetness  of  the  same  authors,  and  enjoyed 
them  with  the  same  gust, —  which  has  brought  away 
their  quintessence,  and  treats  it  to  the  juice  of  the 
grape  without  thrusting  upon  it  the  stalks  and  husks. 
Talking  is  a  digestive  process  which  is  absolutely  essen 
tial  to  the  mental  constitution  of  the  man  who  devours 
many  books.  A  full  mind  must  have  talk,  or  it  will 
grow  dyspeptic.  Look  at  Professor  Wilson!  Athlete 
though  he  was,  intellectually  as  well  as  physically,  he 
could  not  live  without  talk.  Not  having  enough  in 
society,  he  sat  down  and  talked  to  himself  in  post 
prandial  hours;  and,  in  the  wondrous  "Noctes,"  those 
imaginary  conversations  in  which  De  Quincey,  the 
Ettrick  Shepherd,  and  others  were  made  to  join,  poured 
forth  the  whole  affluence  of  his  vigorous  and  teeming 
mind,  which,  like  the  steel  struck  by  the  flint,  needed 
the  collision  of  other  minds  to  bring  out  its  sparks 
of  wit  and  fancy.  The  wit,  pleasantry,  pathos,  poetry, 
and  learning  with  which  these  famous  "  Nights "  bubble 
and  run  over,  show  that  Christopher  North  was  never 


62  LITERARY   CLUBS. 

at  any  other  time  so  happy, —  never  so  original,  fresh, 
and  piquant, —  as  when  engaged  in  literary  colloquy, 
wrestling  with  some  amicable  antagonist,  or  pouring 
out  his  "charmed  thoughts"  for  the  delight  and  edifi 
cation  of  congenial  companions. 

Sir  William  Hamilton  used  to  say  that  a  man  never 
knows  anything  until  he  has  taught  it  in  some  way ; 
it  may  be  orally,  or  it  may  be  by  writing  a  book.  It 
is  equally  true  that  many  authors  have  talked  better 
than  they  have  written.  Philosophers  tell  us  that 
knowledge  is  precious  for  its  own  sake;  that  it  is  its 
own  exceeding  great  reward.  But  experience  tells  us 
that  knowledge  is  not  knowledge  until  we  use  it, —  that 
it  is  not  ours  till  we  have  brought  it  under  the  domin 
ion  of  the  great  social  faculty,  speech.  Solitary  reading 
will  enable  a  man  to  stuff  himself  with  information ; 
but,  without  conversation,  his  mind  will  become  like  a 
pond  without  an  outlet, —  a  mass  of  unhealthy  stagna- 
tuiv.  It  is  not  enough  to  harvest  knowledge  by  study; 
th<-  wind  of  talk  must  winnow  it,  and  blow  away  the 
chaff,  then  will  the  clear,  bright  grains  of  wisdom  be 
garnered,  for  our  own  use  or  that  of  others.  Then  let 
us  talk;  and  that  our  talk  may  be  a  true  re-creation, 
let  us  talk  with  congenial  spirits.  Such  spirits  may  be 
mot  with  singly  in  the  ordinary  intercourse  of  life,  but 
tlu-  full  ])lay  of  the  mind  demands  that  they  should  be 
encountered  "not  in  single  spies,  but  in  battalions;" 
and  hence  the  necessity  of  clubs  to  bring  together,  like 
steel  filings  out  of  sand  at  the  approach  of  a  magnet, 
men  of  the  most  opposite  pursuits  and  tastes,  the  attri 
tion  of  whose  minds  may  brush  away  their  rust  and 
cobwebs,  and  give  them  edge  and  polish. 


'EPIGRAMS. 


WHY  is  it  that  good  epigrams,  at  making  which 
the  wits  of  all  ages  have  tried  their  hands,  are 
so  rare?  Of  the  thousands  that  have  been  composed, 
it  has  been  estimated  that  not  over  five  hundred  are 
good,  and  that  of  these  not  more  than  fifty  meet  all 
the  conditions  of  excellence,  and  may  be  pronounced 
gems  without  a  flaw.  Martial,  the  Eoman  poet,  who 
wrote  fourteen  books  of  epigrams,  frankly  confesses  that 
of  that  vast  number  only  a  few  are  good,  some  passable, 
and  the  great  majority  utter  failures.  The  reason  is 
not  far  to  seek.  Though  less  genius  is  required  to 
produce  this  species  of  literary  composition  than  is 
demanded  by  a  sustained  effort, —  such  as  an  ode,  an 
elegy,  or  a  lyric, —  yet  in  certain  respects  it  is  as  diffi 
cult  and  as  exacting  as  an  epic.  In  its  very  brevity 
lies  its  difficulty.  Nobody  expects  an  "Iliad,"  or  a 
"  Paradise  Lost,"  to  be  one  perpetual  blaze  of  splendor ; 
prosaic  and  even  dull  passages  are  not  only  excusable, 
but  needed  as  foils;  for  nothing  tires  so  soon  as  per 
petual  brilliancy  and  gorgeousness  unrelieved.  The 
more  exquisite  the  enjoyment  we  derive  from  any 
source,  the  more  imperiously  is  an  occasional  suspen 
sion  required.  We  sicken  at  perpetual  lusciousness ;  we 
loathe  the  unvarying  atmosphere  of  a  scented  room, 
though  "all  Arabia  breathes"  from  its  recesses.  But 
while  good  Homer  may  be  allowed  to  nod  occasionally, 

63 


54  EPIGRAMS. 

as  Horace  has  told  us,  and  even  the  rich  illustrations 
which  fancy  scatters  over  the  page  of  the  orator  or  the 
poet  may  be  crowded  upon  each  other  too  fast,  it  is 
not  so  with  the  epigrammatist.  He  must  condense  his 
wit  into  a  few  brief  lines;  it  must  be  intensely  pun 
gent, —  like  some  extract  which  is  the  essence  of  a 
thousand  roses,  and  is  fraught  with  their  accumulated 
odors,  or  the  weight  of  a  hundred  pounds  of  bark  in 
a  few  grains  of  quinine. 

What  are  the  precise  characteristics  of  an  epigram 
it  is  not  easy  to  define.  It  differs  from  a  joke  in  the 
fact  that  the  wit  of  the  latter  lies  in  the  words,  and 
cannot  therefore  be  conveyed  in  another  language; 
while  an  epigram  is  a  wit  of  ideas,  and  hence  is  trans 
latable.  Like  aphorisms,  songs,  and  sonnets,  it  is 
occupied  with  some  single  point,  small  and  manageable; 
but  whilst  a  song  conveys  a  sentiment,  a  sonnet  a 
poetical,  and  an  aphorism  a  moral  reflection,  an  epigram 
expresses  a  contrast  Its  chief  requisites  are  elegance, 
polish,  and  terseness  of  expression,  consummate  ease  of 
versification,  distinctness  of  idea,  and,  above  all,  an 
adroit  satiric  ending,  or  sting  in  the  tail.  Dullness 
and  artistic  defect  are  here  inexcusable,  and  no  broad 
mantle  of  "poetic  license"  can  cover  the  sin.  Espe 
cially  is  it  essential  that  an  epigram  be  brief.  It  has 
been  justly  said  that  of  two  epigrams,  ceteris  paribus, 
the  longer  is  the  less.  Four  lines  are  better  than  six, 
and  two  than  four.  The  Spartan  brevity,  no  less  than 
the  Attic  salt,  is  indispensable,  though  there  seems  no 
need  for  so  rigid  a  limit  as  Boileau's, —  un  bon  mot  de 
deux  rimes  ornfo.  Originally,  an  epigram  was  merely 
an  inscription  on  an  altar,  temple,  or  monument;  and, 
far  from  being  bitter  or  sarcastic,  it  was  commemorative 
or  laudatory.  Next  it  came  to  mean  a  short  poem 


EPIGRAMS.  55 

containing  some  single  thought  pointedly  expressed,  the 
subjects  being  various  —  amatory,  convivial,  eulogistic, 
or  humorous.  Even  then,  however,  the  sting  was  no 
necessary  part  'of  it';  and  all  that  the  Greeks  aimed  at 
was  perfect  literary  finish  and  simplicity.  It  was  the 
Roman  satirists  who  changed  both  the  form  and  sub 
stance  of  the  epigram,  and  it  is  to  them  that  we  are 
indebted  for  the  idea  that  it  should  have  a  spice  of 
malice.  Their  notion  of  it  is  contained  in  the  follow 
ing  distich: 

Omne  epigramma  sit  instar  apis:  sit  aculeius  illi: 
Sint  sua  mella,  sit  et  corporis  exigui, — 

which  has  been  loosely  translated  thus: 

^ 

The  qualities  three  that  in  a  bee  we  meet, 

In  an  epigram  never  should  fail ; 
The  body  should  always  be  little  and  sweet, 

And  a  sting  should  be  left  in  its  tail. 

A  good  collection  of  epigrams  should  have  some 
system,  illustrating  the  styles  of  wit,  as  well  as  tones 
of  thought,  which  have  prevailed  in  different  ages — a 
merit  which  the  collection  by  Rev.  J.  Booth,  pub 
lished  a  few  years  ago  in  London,  and  which  has  sug 
gested  this  article,  has  not.  The  book,  on  the  contrary, 
is  a  mere  catacomb  of  miscellaneous  pieces,  good,  bad 
and  indifferent,  without  any  chronological  arrangement 
or  selection ;  and  the  classification,  if  classification  it  can 
be  called,  is  as  illogical  as  it  is  defective.  Still,  the 
author,  casting  his  net  into  the  great  sea  of  literature, 
has  fished  up  many  fine  epigrams;  and  of  these  we 
shall  cull  out  some  of  the  best,  adding  to  them  a  larger 
number  which  we  have  gathered,  in  our  reading,  from 
ancient  and  modern  sources. 


56  EPIGRAMS. 

To  begin  with  the  ancients:  Martial  wrote  a  great 
many  platitudes,  yet,  from  his  thick  volume,  one  may 
pick  some  epigrams  that  have  the  true  ring.  Here  is 
one  on  a  married  couple: 

So  like  yourselves,  so  like  your  lives, 

As  bad  as  bad  can  be; 
The  worst  of  husbands,  worst  of  wives, — 

Tis  strange  you  can't  agree. 

Cervantes  compares  translations  to  the  reverse  side 
of  tapestry;  but  the  following  rather  gains  in  point 
than  loses  by  the  transfusion  from  Latin  into  English: 

Difficilis,  facilis,  jucundus,  acerbus  es  idem, 
Nee  tecuiu  possum  vivere,  nee  sine  te. 

This  Addison  translates  thus: 

TO  A  CAPRICIOUS  FRIEND. 

In  all  thy  humors,  whether  grave  or  mellow, 
Thou'rt  such  a  touchy,  testy,  pleasant  fellow, — 
Hast  so  much  wit  and  mirth  and  spleen  about  thee. 
There  is  no  living  with  thee,  nor  without  thee. 

Nothing  can  be  more  thoughtful  or  more  apposite 
to  our  own  times,  when  men  are  so  swamped  by  busi 
ness  cares,  than  the  lines  to  Postumus,  which  Cowley 
has  so  beautifully  translated: 

To-morrow  you  will  live,  yon  always  cry; 
In  what  far  country  does  this  morrow  lie, 
That  'tis  so  mighty  long  ere  it  arrive? 
Beyond  the  Indies  does  this  morrow  live? 
Tis  so  far-fetched,  this  morrow,  that  I  fear 
Twill  be  both  very  old  and  very  dear. 
To-morrow  I  will  live,  the  fool  doth  say ; 
To-day  itself 'a  too  late  — the  wise  lived  yesterday. 


EPIGRAMS.  57 

One  of  the  most  pungent  of  Martial's  epigrams  is 
the  following: 

Petit  Qemellus  nuptias  Maronillae, 
Et  cupit,  et  instat,  et  precatur,  et  donat ; 
Adeone  pulchra  est?    Immo  foedius  nil  est; 
Quid  ergo  in  ilia  petitur  et  placet  ?    Tussit. — 

"Which  a  writer  in  the  Westminster  Review  reproduces 

thus : 

Strephon  most  fierce  besieges  Chloe, 
A  nymph  not  over  young  or  showy ; 
What,  then,  can  Strephon's  love  provoke? 
A  charming  paralytic  stroke. 

The  effect  of  this  epigram  lies  in  the  sudden  tussit, 
"  she  coughs,"  which  stops  the  hurried  questions,  bring 
ing  them  down  with  a  pistol-shot.  "A  charming  para 
lytic  stroke  "  is  diffuse  and  pointless.  The  following,  by 
G.  H.  Lewes,  preserves  more  of  the  terseness  and  elan 
of  the  original: 

Qemellns  wants  to  marry  Maronilla; 

Sighs,  ogles,  prays,  and  will  not  be  put  off. 
Is  she  so  lovely  ?    Hideous  as  Scylla ! 

What  makes  him  ogle,  sigh  and  pray?    Her  cough! 

Martial's  lines  "To  an  Ill-Favored  Lady"  are  very 
subtle  and  sarcastic: 

While  in  the  dark  on  thy  soft  hand  I  hung, 
And  heard  the  tempting  siren  in  thy  tongue, 
What  flames,  what  darts,  what  anguish  I  endured  I 
But  when  the  caudle  entered,  I  was  cured  1 

Less  delicate,  but  equally  pointed,  is  the  sarcasm 
against  the  doctor  turned  undertaker,  who,  as  Martial 
says,  does  not  change  his  profession  by  the  change: 

Nuper  erat  medicus,  nunc  est  vespillo  Diabus ; 
Quod  vespillo  facit,  fecerat  et  medicus  — 


58  EPIGRAMS. 

which  Boileau,  no  doubt,  had  in  his  eye  when  he  wrote 
that  delicious  couplet: 

II  vivait  jadis  4  Florence  un  medecin, 
Savant  hableur,  dit-on,  et  cetibre  assassin. 

If  brevity  is  the  soul  of  wit,  the  following  epigram 
may  be  regarded  as  perfect: 

Pauper  videri  vult  Cinna  —  et  eat  pauper. 

"Cinna  pretends  to  be  poor,  and  is  what  he  pretends," 
a  monostich  rarely  excelled. 

A  large  majority  of  the  epigrams  of  all  ages  have 
turned  on  the  follies  of  certain  set  and  customary 
characters,  regarding  them  from  conventional  points  of 
view.  Women  who  paint  and  women  who  scold,  ser 
mons  that  have  the  effect  of  poppy  and  mandragora, 
the  rascality  of  lawyers,  and  Death's  imprudence  in 
carrying  off  doctors,  are  old  and  hackneyed  themes,  on 
which  the  changes  have  been  rung  for  ages.  Of  legal 
jests,  one  of  the  best,  though  rather  long,  is  the  follow 
ing  hit  at  Lord  Eldon  (with  others),  who,  according  to 
Sydney  Smith,  could  not  assent  to  the  truth  that  two 
and  two  make  four,  without  shedding  tears,  or  express 
ing  some  doubt  or  scruple : 

Mr.  Leach  made  a  speech, 

Angry,  neat,  but  wrong; 
Mr.  Hart,  on  the  other  part, 

Was  prosy,  dull,  and  long. 

Mr.  Bell  spoke  very  well, 
Though  nobody  knew  what  about ; 

Mr.  Tower  talked  for  an  hour  — 
Sat  down  fatigued  and  hot. 

Mr.  Parker  made  the  case  darker, 
Which  was  dark  enough  without ; 

Mr.  Cooke  quoted  his  book, 
And  tke  Chancellor  said,  "I doubt." 


EPIGRAMS.  59 

The  author  of  this  was  Sir  George  Rose,  to  whom 
Lord  Eldon,  not  long  after,  in  deciding  a  case  against 
him,  said:  "In  this  case,  Mr.  Rose,  the  Chancellor  does 
not  doubt."  A  terser  epigram  than  the  foregoing  is 
one  which  was  sent  on  a  scrap  of  paper,  by  a  barrister, 
to  Baron  Garrow,  who  had  been  laboring  during  a 
cross-examination  to  prove  by  a  prevaricating  old 
woman  that  a  tender  of  money  had  been  made : 

Garrow,  forbear!  that  tough  old  jade 
Will  never  prove  a  tender  made. 

It  has  been  doubted  whether  the  epigram  exactly  suits 
the  genius  of  the  English  language.  There  are  proofs 
enough  to  the  contrary,  we  think,  to  remove  all  skep 
ticism  on  this  point;  but  it  must  be  admitted  that  the 
Greek,  the  Latin,  and  the  French  preserve  the  neat 
ness  and  the  point  of  this  kind  of  witticism  better 
than  our  own  tongue.  One  of  the  most  pungent 
French  epigrams  is  Boileau's  verse  on  the  fierce  dispute 
that  raged  in  the  Catholic  church  concerning  the  Ho- 
moousion  and  the  Homoiousion.  Men  tore  each  other 
to  pieces,  because  they  could  not  agree  whether  the  Son 
was  similar  to  the  substance  of  the  Father,  or  of  the 
same  substance, —  a  dispute  which  hinged  on  the  ac 
ceptance  or  rejection  of  the  diphthong  oi: 

D'une  sylldbe  impie  un  saint  mot  augmente 
Remplit  tous  les  esprits  d'aigreurs  si  meurtrieres — 
Tu  fis,  dans  une  guerre  et  si  triste  et  si  longue, 
Perir  tant  de  Chretiens,  martyrs  d'une  dipthongue! 

Though  the  epigram  did  not  flower  fully  in  Eng 
land  till  half  a  century  later,  yet  it  reached  a  high 
degree  of  excellence  in  the  time  of  Charles  II.  What 
can  be  more  sarcastic  than  the  following  by  Cleveland? 

Had  Cain  been  Scot,  God  would  have  changed  his  doom : 
Not  forced  him  wander,  but  confined  him  home. 


60  EPIGRAMS. 

"Si  sic  omnia  dixisset!"  exclaims  Drjden,  in  his 
"Essay  on  Dramatic  Poesy."  "This  is  wit  in  all  lan 
guages:  it  is  like  mercury,  never  to  be  lost  or  killed." 

Of  many  epigrams  the  chief  element  is  surprise  — 
an  artifice  by  which  an  unexpected  turn  is  suddenly 
given  to  some  apparently  careless  assertion.  A  good 
specimen  is  this  hit  at  a  fat  doctor: 

When  Edwards  treads  the  streets,  the  paviors  cry 
God  bless  you,  sir!  and  lay  their  rammers  by. 

The  best  machinery  for  surprise  is  the  amoebaeic 
poem,  or  question  and-  answer,  as  in  the  dialogue  of  the 
traveller  and  the  clergyman: 

C. —  I've  lost  my  portmanteau. 
T. —  I  pity  your  grief! 
C. —  All  my  sermons  are  in  it. 
T.—  I  pity  the  thief  I 

Pope,  who  is  one  of  the  most  epigrammatic  of  poets, 
wrote  few  epigrams  which  are  disconnected  from  his 
other  verses;  but  his  poems,  from  the  "Essay  on  Criti 
cism"  to  the  "Dunciad,"  are  strewn  with  antithetical 
couplets  that  are  as  condensed  and  pointed  as  the  most 
successful  hits  in  Martial.  What  can  be  keener  or  more 
sparkling  than  such  lines  as  these?  — 

Not  louder  shrieks  to  pitying  heaven  are  cast 

When  husbands — or  when  lapdogs — breathe  their  last; 

or  the  portraiture  of  an  intriguing  woman  who,  after 
aiming  at  loftier  game,  saw  a  surer  and  easier  prey,  and 

stooped  at  once. 
And  made  a  hearty  meal  upon  a  dunce. 

The  satires  of  Young  abound  in  terse  and  caustic 


EPIGEAMS.  61 

epigrams,   of  which   the   following  rivals  the  happiest 

conceits  of  Pope: 
i 

Tis  health  chiefly  keeps  an  atheist  in  the  dark, — 

A  fever  argues  better  than  a  Clarke; 

But  let  the  logic  of  the  pulse  decay, 

The  Grecian  he'll  renounce,  and  learn  to  pray. 

Of  one  of  Young's  deadliest  thrusts,  Voltaire,  the 
Corypheus  of  French  epigrammatists,  was  the  victim. 
The  French  wit  having  in  Young's  presence  decried 
Milton's  genius,  and  ridiculed  particularly  the  personifi 
cation  in  Paradise  Lost,  of  Death,  Sin,  and  Satan,  the 
Englishman,  indignant  at  the  Frenchman's  irreverence 
and  levity,  lifted  his  finger,  and  pointing  at  him,  said: 

Thou  art  so  witty,  wicked,  and  so  thin, 
Thou  art  at  once  the  Devil,  Death,  and  Sin. 

The  erection  of  a  monument  some  years  after  his 
death  to  the  author  of  "Hudibras,"  who  died  in  the 
most  squalid  quarter  of  London,  and  was  indebted  to 
the  charity  of  a  friend  for  a  grave,  provoked  one  of  the 
acutest  epigrams  in  the  language: 

While  Butler,  needy  wretch,  was  yet  alive, 

No  generous  patron  would  a  dinner  give; 

See  him,  when  starved  to  death,  and  turned  to  dust, 

Presented  with  a  monumental  bust ! 

The  poet's  fate  is  here  in  emblem  shone: 

He  asked  for  bread,  and  he  received  a  stone. 

The  times  of  William,  Queen  Anne,  and  George  I., 
were  the  great  age  of  historical  epigrams  in  England. 
One  of  the  personages  most  frequently  satirized  during 
this  period  was  the  Duke  of  Marlborough,  whose  petty 
avarice  and  hagglings  with  the  Bath  chairmen,  and 
uxorious  fondness  for  his  termagant,  Sarah,  were  re 
membered  long  after  the  conqueror  of  Blenheim  was 


62  EPIGRAMS. 

forgotten, — just  as  Lord  Peterborough,  walking  from 
market  in  his  blue  ribbon,  with  a  fowl  under  one  arm 
and  a  cabbage  under  the  other,  threw  into  the  shade 
the  hero  of  Almanza.  Marlborough's  new  palace  of 
Blenheim  was  the  target  of  ceaseless  shafts, —  as,  for 
example,  this  epigram  on  the  high  arch  built  over  the 
little  brook  in  the  park: 

The  lofty  arch  his  high  ambition  shows: 
The  stream  an  emblem  of  his  bounty  flows. 

A  more  murderously  severe  lampoon  on  the  hero  of 
Blenheim  and  Malplaquet  was  that  by  Swift,  which 
closes  thus: 

Behold,  his  funeral  appears  — 

Nor  widow's  sighs,  nor  orphan's  tears, 

Wont  at  such  times  the  heart  to  pierce, 

Attend  the  progress  of  his  hearse. 

But  what  of  that?  his  friends  may  say, 

He  had  those  honors  in  his  day ; 

True  to  his  profit  and  his  pride, 

He  made  them  weep  before  he  died. 

It  is  pleasant  to  contrast  this  fierce  satire  of  Swift 
with  the  delicate  pleasantry  of  Addison.  "  Swift  uses 
the  knout  like  a  Russian;  Addison  tickles  a  man  into 
agonies  with  a  feather.  Swift  is  dicax,  and  Addison 
facetus." 

Of  Oxford  epigrams  we  have  a  few  choice  specimens, 
of  which  we  can  give  only  a  few  of  the  briefest  in  this 
article.  An  alteration  in  the  statutory  exercises  for 
divinity  degrees,  by  which  two  theological  essays  were 
required  in  future  from  the  candidates,  drew  forth  the 
following : 

The  title  D.  D.  't  is  proposed  to  convey 
To  an  A  double  3  for  a  double  S  A. 


EPIGRAMS.  63 

The  honorary  degree  of  D.  C.  L.  having  been  de 
clined  by  a  distinguished  officer  on  account  of  the 
heavy  fees  at  that  time  demanded,  his  refusal  was  thus 
set  forth : 

Oxford,  no  doubt  you  wish  me  well, 

But  prithee  let  me  be ; 
I  can't,  alas !  be  D.  C.  L., . 

Because  of  L.  S.  D. 

Sydney  Smith's  description  of  Lord  Jeffrey,  mounted 
on  a  donkey,  is  decidedly  classic: 

Witty  as  Horatius  Flaccus, 
As  great  a  Jacobin  as  Gracchus, 
Short,  though  not  so  fat  as  Bacchus, 
Riding  on  a  little  jackass. 

One  of  the  "modern  improvements"  in  epigrams  is 
the  artifice  of  parody,  which  may  be  regarded  as  a  poor 
trick,  but  which,  as  it  doubles  the  surprise,  and  there 
fore  the  efficiency,  cannot  be  very  sharply  condemned. 
A  good  illustration  is  the  following  hit  at  Tom  Moore: 

When  Limerick  once,  in  idle  whim, 

Moore,  as  her  member,  gaily  courted, 
The  boys,  for  fun's  sake,  asked  of  him 

To  state  what  party  he  supported; 
When  thus  to  them  the  answer  ran: 
"  I'm  of  no  party,  as  a  man, 
But,  as  a  poet,  am-a-tory." 

The  poet  thus  wittily  characterized  was  one  of  the 
most  sparkling  of  epigrammatists.  Though  erotic  verse 
may  have  been  his  forte,  yet  he  showed  that  the  bow 
of  Cupid  can  wound  as  well  as  the  bow  of  Apollo.  As 
another  has  said,  he  was  in  controversy  as  quick  and 
as  vexatious  as  a  mosquito;  and  he  had  an  eminent 
advantage  in  his  musical  command  of  verse,  for  his 


f,4  EPIGRAMS. 

hum  charms  the  ear  while  his  sting  tortures  the  flesh. 
He  was  like  his  own 

bees  of  Trebizond, 

Which  from  the  sunniest  flowers  that  glad 
With  their  pure  smile  the  gardens  round, 
Draw  venom  forth  that  drives  men  mad. 

Of  the  scores  of  jeux  d?  esprit  that  fell  from  his  pen, 
we  have  room  only  for  the  following  on  a  vain  politi 
cian,  which  suggests  a  kind  of  speculation  that  might 
be  made  very  profitable  in  these  days: 

The  best  speculation  the  market  holds  forth 

To  any  enlightened  lover  of  pelf, 
Is  to  buy  up  at  the  price  he  is  worth, 

And  sell  him  at  that  he  puts  on  himself. 

Of  epigrams  on  names,  the  name  is  legion.  Dr.  Lett- 
som's  "Principles  of  Medicine"  stands  in  the  front  rank 
for  its  pith  and  unpretending  stoicism,  which  is  con 
tent  to  do  its  duty  and  abide  the  consequences: 

If  anybody  comes  to  I, 
I  physics,  bleeds,  and  sweats  'em ; 

If,  after  that,  they  like  to  die, 
Why,  what  care  I?    I.  LETTSOM. 

In  the  next  we  have  the  very  apices  rerum : 

With  Pius,  Wiseman  tries 

To  lay  us  under  ban; 
O  Pius,  man  unwise ; 

O  im-pious  Wiseman ! 

When  Disraeli,  in  a  speech  on  the  death  of  Wel 
lington,  borrowed  without  acknowledgment  a  passage 
from  a  French  eulogy  on  Marshal  St.  Cyr,  by  Thiers, 
he  became  the  victim  of  endless  puns,  gibes  and  epi 
grams,  among  which  was  this  ironical  defense: 


EPIGRAMS.  65 

i 
In  sounding  great  Wellington's  praise, 

Dizzy's  grief  and  the  truth  both  appear ; 
For  a  great  flood  of  tears  (Thiers)  he  lets  fall, 
Which  were  certainly  meant  for  sincere  (St.  Cyr). 

A  happy  epigram  was  made   by  an   old  gentleman 
of  the  name   of  Gould,   who,   having   married    a   very 
young  wife,  wrote  a  poetical  epistle  to  a  friend  to  in 
form  him  of  it,  and  concluded'  thus : 

So  you  see,  my  dear  sir,  though  I'm  eighty  years  old, 
A  girl  of  eighteen  is  in  love  with  old  Gould. 

To  which  his  friend  replied: 

A  girl  of  eighteen  may  love  Gould,  it  is  true ; 
But  believe  me,  dear  sir,  it  is  gold,  without  U. 

The  celebrated  scholar,  Dr.  Parr,  attended  for  a  short 
time  upon  Queen  Caroline,  to  read  prayers,  etc.  His 
place  was  afterwards  supplied  by  a  gentleman  of  the 
name  of  Fellowes;  upon  which  the  following  epigram 
was  written: 

There's  a  difference  between 
Dr.  Parr  and  the  Queen ; 
For  the  reason  you  need  not  go  far ; 
The  doctor  is  jealous 
Of  certain  little  Fellowes, 
Whom  the  Queen  thinks  much  above  Parr. 

How  far  such  word  twisting  as  the  following  is 
excusable,  we  leave  the  reader  to  judge: 

That  Homer  should  a  bankrupt  be, 
Is  not  so  very  Odd  D'ye  See, 
If  it  be  true,  as  I'm  instructed, 
So  Ill-he-had  his  books  conducted. 

One  of  the  neatest  and  most  caustic  epigrams  of 
this  century  was  the  one  which  Byron  so  much 


66  EPIGRAMS. 

admired,  on  Ward, —  a  tonguey  Parliamentary  orator 
and  writer  for  the  magazines,  who  had  criticized 
Rogers' s  "Italy"  with  great  severity.  Referring  to 
Ward's  practice  of  passing  off  cut-and-dry  speeches  for 
extempore  ones,  the  banker-poet  gave  him  the  following 
rapier-like  thrust: 

Ward  has  no  heart,  they  say;  but  I  deny  it: 
He  has  a  heart,  and  gets  his  speeches  by  it. 

It  is  said  that  Rogers  was  helped  a  little  in  writing 
this  epigram  by  Richard  Sharp.  The  poet  was  speedily 
rewarded  by  a  jest  upon  his  cadaverous  complexion, 
on  which,  a  waggish  acquaintance  declared,  more  good 
things  had  been  said  and  written  than  on  that  of  the 
greatest  beauty.  It  was  Ward  who,  according  to  the 
author  of  "Biographical  and  Critical  Essays,"  asked 
Rogers  why,  now  that  he  could  afford  it,  he  did  not  set 
up  his  hearse ;  and  it  was  the  same  sympathizing  com 
panion  who,  when  Rogers  repeated  the  couplet: 

The  robin,  with  its  furtive  glance, 
Comes  and  looks  at  me  askance, 

struck  in  with,  "If  it  had  been  a  carrion  crow,  he 
would  have  looked  you  full  in  the  face." 

The  following  playful  colloquy  is  said  to  have  taken 
place  at  a  dinner-table  between  Sir  George  Rose  and 
James  Smith,  in  allusion  to  Craven  Street,  Strand,  Lon 
don,  where  the  latter  resided : 

J.  8.  —  At  the  top  of  my  street  the  attorneys  abound, 
And  down  at  the  bottom  the  barges  are  found ; 
Fly,  Honesty,  fly  to  some  safer  retreat, 
For  there's  craft  in  the  river,  and  craft  in  the  street. 

Sir  O.  R.  —  Why  should  honesty  fly  to  some  safer  retreat, 

From  attorneys  and  barges,  'od  rot  'em  ? 
For  the  lawyers  are  just  at  the  top  of  the  street, 
And  the  barges  are  just  at  the  bottom. 


•  EPIGRAMS.  67 

The  following  is  simplex  munditiis.  Who  is  the 
author  ? 

Madame  Dill 
Is  very  ill, 

And  nothing  will  improve  her, 
Until  she  sees 
The  Tuilleries, 
And  waddles  through  the  Louvre. 

Few  epigrams  are  more  ingenious  than  the  following 
parody  on  the  noted  grammatical  line,  Bifrons  atque 
Gustos,  Bos,  Fur,  Sus,  atque  Sacerdos.  The  author, 
curiously  enough,  was  a  Canterbury  clergyman: 

Bifrons  ever  when  he  preaches; 
Gustos  of  what  in  his  reach  is; 
Bos  among  his  neighbors'  wives; 
Fur  in  gathering  of  his  tithes; 
Sus  at  every  parish  feast; 
On  Sundays,  Sacerdos,  a  priest. 

Lessing  has  given  us  one  of  the  best  specimens  of 
the  German  epigram: 

Es  hat  der  Schuster  Franz  zum  Dichter  sich  entzuckt, 
Was  er  als  Schuster  that,  das  thut  er  noch:  er  flickt; — 

which,  roughly  rendered,  runs  thus: 

Tompkins  forsakes  his  last  and  awl 

For  literary  squabbles; 
Styles  himself  poet;  but  his  trade 

Remains  the  same  —  he  cobbles. 

American  epigrams  of  a  high  character  are  not  very 
numerous;  yet  we  have  seen  a  few  almost  as  keen, 
pithy,  and  artistically  finished,  as  any  that  have  come 
to  us  from  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic.  The  follow 
ing,  which  appeared  when  Dr.  Parsons  won  the  prize 


68  EPIGBAMS. 

for  the  best  prologue  to  be  recited  at  the   opening  of 
the  Boston  Theatre,  is  decidedly  toothsome: 

INVITA  DKNTE. 

"What!  Parsons  a  dentist?    You  don't  mean  to  say 
That  that  sort  of  chap  bore  the  chaplet  away?" 
"Nay, —  none  of  your  sneers  at  his  laureate  wreath, — 
He's  a  very  good  poet,  in  spite  of  his  teeth!" 

The  following  lines  to  a  lady  who  had  published  a 
volume  of  mediocre  poems,  appeared  many  years  ago  in 
the  Knickerbocker  Magazine: 

Unfortunate  lady,  how  sad  is  your  lot! 
Your  ringlets  are  red — your  poems  are  not. 

Why  is  it  that  epigram-writing  has  gone  out  of 
fashion  ?  Is  it  because  we  live  in  a  prosaic  and  real 
istic  age, — because  the  era  of  wits  and  preux-chevaliers 
has  gone,  and  that  of  "economists  and  calculators"  has 
succeeded?  For  a  single  stroke  of  wit, —  one  deadly 
stab,  which  shall  give  an  enemy  his  quietus, — no  better 
form  can  be  conceived;  and  we  do  not  wonder,  there 
fore,  that  it  was  once  an  acknowledged  and  formidable 
force  in  literature.  Time  was  when  the  wits  were  the 
lords  or  lions  of  society,  and  a  satirical  poem  of  a  few 
lines  might  ruin  a  politician,  extinguish  an  author,  or 
cripple,  if  not  overthrow,  a  ministry.  Epigrams  were 
then  the  favorite  weapons  of  political  and  personal  con 
troversy,  and  battles  were  fought  with  this  rapier  as 
decisive  as  are  now  won  with  the  clumsy  club  of  the 
pamphleteer  or  the  broadsides  of  the  newspaper.  It  is 
doubtful  whether  the  small  shot  which  Fox  and  Sheri 
dan,  Pitt  and  Canning,  fired  ofif  in  the  Rolliad  and 
Anti-Jacobin  did  not  prove  as  murderous  to  their  po 
litical  enemies  as  the  bombs  and  shells  which  they  let 
loose  in  the  House  of  Commons.  Many  of  the  pon- 


EPIOBAMS.  69 

derous  pamphlets  and  speeches  of  those  times  have 
been  forgotten,  while  the  apparently  ephemeral  pieces, 
intended  for  a  transient  end,  are  still  read  and  admired 
and  laughed  over.  Not  a  tithe  of  those  who  have 
roared  over  "The  Needy  Knife-Grinder"  have  read 
Burke's  "  Letter  on  the  French  Revolution ;"  while  such 
works  as  Darwin's  "  Loves  of  the  Plants "  and  Payne 
Knight's  "Progress  of  Civil  Society"  survive  only  in 
their  parodies.  The  old  monarchy  of  France  was  de 
fined  as  a  despotism  tempered  by  epigrams;  and  even 
during  the  Revolution,  when  men  were  not  in  the  mood 
for  merriment,  the  contending  factions  made  use  of  this 
weapon.  Notwithstanding  the  efficacy  of  that  fearful 
political  engine,  the  guillotine,  Chamfort,  who  had 
abundant  opportunity  for  observation,  has  declared  that 
11  n'y  a  rien  qui  tue  comme  un  ridicule. 

Why,  then,  we  repeat,  have  we  now  comparatively 
few  epigrams  ?  Doubtless  an  explanation  of  their  dearth 
is  to  be  found  in  the  fact,  first,  that  authors  are  less 
jealous  of  each  other  than  in  the  days  of  Pope  and 
Dryden;  they  are  no  longer  divided  into  hostile  cliques, 
but  rejoice  in  each  other's  success,  and  feel  that  they 
are  members  of  a  common  guild.  Political  contests  are 
less  personal  than  of  yore,  and  indignant  lampoons 
have  disappeared  with  duelling  and  revengeful  party 
feelings.  The  epigram  was  perfected  in  an  age  when 
manners  were  starched  and  formal, —  an  age  of  minuets, 
and  hoops,  and  pomatum,  and  powdered  cues,  and  pur 
ple  velvet  doublets,  and  flesh-colored  stockings; — when, 
too,  the  classics  were  studied  and  imitated  more  than 
now,  and  the  antithetical  poetry  of  Pope,  Swift,  and 
Dryden,  imitated  by  all,  made  epigrammatic  writing 
easy  and  fashionable.  The  result  is  that,  by  a  process 
of  natural  selection  or  adaptation,  our  venom  bags  have 


70  EPIGRAMS. 

been  absorbed,  and  men  are  born  without  them.  Occa 
sionally  hybrid  specimens  of  the  epigram  appear  in 
J'ttnch,  or  flower  in  the  backward  season  and  classical 
air  of  the  English  universities;  and  now  and  then  you 
are  startled  by  an  epigram,  at  once  pithy,  pointed,  and 
exquisitely  finished,  in  some  American  journal;  but 
generally  they  have  lost  their  flavor,  and  degenerated 
into  vehicles  for  jokes  and  puns. 

On  the  whole,  the  change  is  not  to  be  regretted; 
for,  however  agreeable  it  may  be  to  read  epigrams  and 
impromptus,  no  one  could  ever  have  liked  to  be  their 
victim, —  to  be  a  target  for  gibes  and  sarcasms.  To 
become  a  martyr  "for  the  truth's  sake"  has  been  the 
ambition  and  "last  infirmity"  of  many  noble  minds; 
but  no  one  likes  to  be  a  butt  of  ridicule  in  order  to 
testify  the  sincerity  of  his  convictions.  It  has  often 
been  remarked  that  men  would  rather  be  deemed 
villains  than  fools;  and  it  is  certainly  more  pleasing  to 
our  vanity  to  be  hated  than  to  be  despised.  Human 
nature  was  the  same  in  Queen  Anne's  time  as  to-day; 
and  to  no  man,  however  thick-skinned,  could  it  ever 
have  been  pleasant  to  have  his  little  personal  peculiar 
ities,  his  "peccadilloes  or  scapes  of  infirmity,"  some 
faux  pas,  or  unlucky  blunder,  or  petty  social  sin,  or 
"  virtuous  vice,"  done  into  verse,  and  handed  round  the 
breakfast  or  tea-tables  of  his  particular  circle,  to  amuse 
his  friends  and  give  their  cheeks  a  holiday.  Nowadays, 
if  a  man's  conduct  is  satirized  by  a  review  or  news 
paper,  he  reflects,  with  Bentley,  that  no  man  was  ever 
written  down  except  by  himself;  or  reasons,  with 
Abraham  Lincoln,  that  "if  the  end  brings  him  out 
right,  what  is  said  against  him  won't  amount  to  any 
thing, —  if  the  end  brings  him  out  wrong,  ten  angels 
•wearing  he  is  right  would  make  no  difference;"  and 


EPIGRAMS.  71 

i 

so  he  laughs  at  the  jest  if  it  is  a  good  one,  and  if 
otherwise,  lets  it  hum  and  buzz  itself  asleep.  Not  so 
with  the  terse  and  biting  epigram  of  two  to  eight  lines, 
which  was  first  confidentially  whispered  from  friend  to 
friend,  and  then  handed  about  in  manuscript  long 
before  it  was  caught  up  by  the  press.  This  insect  libel 
seemed  never  to  die;  it  stuck  to  its  victim  like  a  gnat, 
teased  him  his  life  long,  and  oftentimes  clung  to  his 
memory  long  after  he  had  been  fretted  and  worried 
into  his  grave.  It  must  not  be  supposed  that  the 
exquisite  polish  and  the  razor-like  sharpness  of  the  jest 
made  it  more  endurable.  Men  do  not  stand  still  to  be 
stabbed  or  shot,  in  mute  admiration  of  the  splendid 
weapons  with  which  they  may  be  assailed.  Few  persons 
have  the  equanimity  which  Chesterfield  manifested  when 
he  read  Johnson's  stinging  letter,  and  can  coolly  point 
out  and  commend  the  happy  conceits,  the  exquisite 
turns  of  expression,  in  a  satirical  production  every  sen 
tence  of  which  is  a  stab  at  themselves.  It  is  true  an 
epigrammatist  has  said  that, — 

As  in  smooth  oil  the  razor  best  is  whet, 

So  wit  is  by  politeness  sharpest  set ; 

Their  want  of  edge  from  their  offence  is  seen, — 

Both  pain  us  least  when  exquisitely  keen. 

But  we  believe  the  very  reverse  is  true, —  that  both  cut 
more  deeply,  and  leave  scars  that  are  longer  in  healing. 
Johnson  was  right  when  he  declared  that  "the  vehicle 
of  wit  and  delicacy"  only  makes  the  satire  more  sting 
ing.  Compared  with  ordinary  abuse,  the  difference,  he 
said,  is  between  being  bruised  with  a  club  and  being 
wounded  with  a  poisoned  arrow. 


POPULAR  FALLACIES. 


SOME  writer  remarks  that  there  is  a  wonderful  vigor 
of  constitution  in  a  popular  fallacy.  When  once 
the  world  has  got  hold  of  a  lie,  it  is  astonishing  how 
hard  it  is  to  get  it  out  of  the  world.  You  beat  it 
about  the  head,  and  it  seems  to  have  given  up  the 
ghost;  and  lol  the  next  day, — like  Zachary  Taylor,  who 
did  not  know  when  he  was  whipped  by  Santa  Anna, — 
it  is  alive,  and  as  lusty  as  ever. 

Proofs  of  the  truth  of  this  observation  will  suggest 
themselves  to  every  one.  Of  the  scores  of  fine  sayings 
that  have  the  advantage  of  being  fallacies,  one  of  the 
most  popular  is  the  assertion  that  "a  boaster  is  always 
a  coward."  It  would  be  very  agreeable  to  find  this  so; 
but  so  far  is  it  from  being  true,  that* among  the  bravest 
people  on  earth  are  the  Gascons,  who  are  such  boasters 
that  we  have  derived  a  contemptuous  epithet  from  their 
name.  They  are  unquestionably  the  most  courageous 
and  fiery-spirited  of  the  Prankish  race, — "saucy,  full  of 
gibes,  and  quarrelsome  as  a  weasel," — and  their  valor  and 
coolness  in  danger,  their  immense  vanity,  and  "moun 
tainous  ME,"  as  Emerson  would  term  it,  are  so  noto 
rious  that  they  are  almost  invariably  selected  for  heroes 
by  some  of  the  best  French  novelists. 

Was  Achilles,  or  any  one  of  Homer's  heroes,  a 
coward?  Yet  the  great  father  of  poetry,  who  dissected 
the  human  heart  as  keenly  as  any  modern  anatomist, 


POPULAR    FALLACIES.  73 

makes  his  champions  "crow  like  Chanticleer"  over  their 
achievements  on  all  possible  occasions.  Who  is  igno 
rant,  too,  that  Milton's  Satan,  whose  sublimest  charac 
teristic  is  his  "unconquerable  will,  the  resolution  not 
to  submit  or  yield,"  brags  incessantly,  in  the  most 
sarcastic  and  biting  language,  of  the  "fell  rout"  with 
which  he  has  visited  the  hosts  of  heaven  ?  With  a  few 
exceptions,  the  Southern  rebels  were  all  insufferable 
boasters,  from  Jeff.  Davis  downward ;  yet  did  they  often 
show  the  white  feather  on  the  field?  Did  ever  a  braver 
man  draw  sword  than  General  Wolfe?  Yet  we  are 
told  that  dining  with  Pitt,  the  British  Minister,  on  the 
day  before  his  embarkation  for  America,  he  broke,  as 
the  evening  advanced,  into  a  disgusting  strain  of  gas 
conade  and  bravado.  Drawing  his  sword,  he  rapped 
the  table  with  it,  flourished  it  around  the  room,  and 
talked  of  the  mighty  things  which  that  sword  was  to 
achieve,  till  the  two  Ministers,  Pitt  and  Temple,  stood 
aghast;  and  when  Wolfe  had  taken  his  leave,  and  his 
carriage  was  heard  to  roll  from  the  door,  the  former, 
shaken  for  the  moment  in  the  high  opinion  which  his 
deliberate  judgment  had  formed  of  the  soldier,  lifted  up 
his  eyes  and  arms,  and  exclaimed  to  the  latter:  "Good 
God!  that  I  should  have  entrusted  the  fate  of  the 
country  and  the  Administration  to  such  hands!"  It  is 
said  that  "a  barking  dog  doesn't  bite;"  but  those 
persons  who,  relying  upon  this  saw,  have  provoked  a 
bull-dog  to  plant  his  teeth  in  their  calves,  know  better. 
Read  the  life  of  that  bravest  and  most  braggart  of 
artists,  Benvenuto  Cellini,  compared  with  whom  Falstaff 
was  an  incarnation  of  humility,  and  you  will  abandon 
the  popular  but  foolish  notion  that  real  talent  is  never 
vain,  and  real  courage  never  boastful. 

Akin  to  the  foregoing  hackneyed  fallacy,  is  another 


74  POPULAR   FALLACIES. 

on  everybody's  lips,  viz.,  that  "brave  men  are  never 
cruel."  Bravery  has  nothing  to  do  with  either  cruelty 
or  clemency;  it  is  alike  independent  of  either.  There 
are  cases,  doubtless,  where  brave  men,  not  fearing  their 
enemies,  have  spared  their  lives;  while  a  coward,  from 
very  fear,  would  have  shown  no  mercy.  But  the  brave 
men  who  have  been  habitually  merciful,  have  been  very 
few.  Did  any  man,  however  he  might  have  execrated 
the  cruelty  of  Haynau,  "the  Austrian  butcher,"  doubt 
his  courage?  True,  he  was  a  woman-whipper,  and 
proved  himself  to  have  had  a  brutal  disposition;  but 
did  he  ever  show  himself  pigeon-livered  on  the  battle 
field,  or,  if  insulted  by  another,  would  he  have  hesi 
tated  to  measure  swords  with  him?  Was  Graham  of 
Claverhouse  a  coward? — yet  did  he  not  shoot  innocent 
peasants  without  hesitation  or  compunction?  Was 
Bonaparte  a  coward? — yet  did  he  not,  with  cold-blooded 
cruelty,  order  Palm,  the  bookseller,  and  the  Duke  d' 
Enghien  to  be  shot,  and  did  he  not  butcher  thousands 
of  Turkish  prisoners  at  Jaffa?  Did  he  not  leave  a 
legacy  to  Cantillon,  the  would-be  assassin  of  Welling 
ton?  Was  Napoleon  III.  a  coward? — yet  did  he  not, 
on  the  2d  of  December,  1852,  mow  down  thousands  of 
the  citizens  of  Paris  with  his  cannon  to  place  himself 
on  the  throne  of  France?  Did  Marius  or  Sulla  ever 
show  the  white  feather,  or  the  courage  of  Kichard  the 
Third  ooze  out,  like  that  of  Bob  Acres,  at  his  fingers' 
ends?  The  Duke  of  Alba,  who  shot  down  the  Nether- 
landers  like  dogs,  was  never  twitted  of  timidity.  No 
body  ever  doubted  Lord  Nelson's  bravery,  yet  a  British 
writer  admits  that  he  practised  the  most  atrocious 
cruelty  on  the  Neapolitan  patriots,  to  say  nothing  of 
the  infamous  breach  of  faith  by  which  those  cruelties 
were  preceded. 


POPULAR   FALLACIES.  75 

Another  popular  fallacy  is,  that  "murder  will  out." 
That  such  were  the  fact  is  a  consummation  devoutly 
to  be  wished;  but  almost  every  year  proves  its  fallacy. 
The  crime  is,  indeed,  of  so  startling  a  character,  and 
the  remorse  often  so  poignant,  that  the  perpetrator 
cannot  so  easily  remain  concealed  as  the  knave  who 
robs  a  bank  or  picks  a  pocket.  There  is  an  astonishing 
number  of  cases  where  the  crime,  even  after  long  con 
cealment,  has  been  discovered;  and  the  exceptions  are 
comparatively  so  few  that  they  may  well  deter  those 
who  meditate  the  act.  Yet  there  have  been  murders 
the  authors  of  which  have  never  been,  and  probably 
never  will  be,  revealed, —  not,  at  least,  till  the  lifting  of 
the  curtain  at  the  last  day  shall  disclose  them.  Who 
has  forgotten  the  famous  Cannon  street  murder  of  1866, 
committed  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening,  in  one  of  the 
most  crowded  thoroughfares  of  London, — a  crime  to  the 
author  of  which  not  the  slightest  clue  has  yet  been 
found?  Or  who  has  forgotten  the  Rogers  homicide  in 
New  York,  the  perpetrator  of  which  is  still  shrouded 
from  the  public  eye, —  a  homicide  that  took  place  at 
seven  o'clock  in  the  morning  in  the  open  street,  within 
a  few  steps  of  Broadway,  when  much  of  the  industrial 
life  of  the  city  was  already  astir?  To  these  instances 
we  might  add  the  mysterious  murder  of  Parker,  some 
twenty  years  ago,  in  Manchester,  N.  EL;  that  of  Estes, 
the  fireman,  in  Boston ;  that  of  Appleby,  the  grocer,  on 
Randolph  street,  Chicago,  about  nine  o'clock  in  the  eve 
ning,  in  1856;  and,  more  recently,  the  yet  baffling 
mystery  of  the  Nathan  murder  in  New  York.  A 
strange  paradox  in  the  history  of  some  of  these  crimes 
is  that  the  difficulty  of  tracing  them  to  their  authors 
has  been  aggravated,  apparently,  by  the  very  lack  of 
caution  and  secresy  in  their  commission. 


76  POPULAR   FALLACIES. 

Another  popular  fallacy,  which  is  on  the  tongues  of 
the  friends  of  political  liberty,  is  that  "  it  is  impossible 
to  Btifle  the  expression  of  public  opinion."  A  very 
pleasant  doctrine  this  for  those  to  believe  who  live 
under  a  despotism;  but  it  is  useless  for  those  who  fail 
to  resist  the  first  encroachments  of  arbitrary  power,  ere 
it  has  become  irresistible,  to  lay  this  flattering  unction 
to  their  souls.  There  are,  indeed,  a  thousand  cunning 
devices  and  shrewd  expedients  which  ingenuity  may 
hit  upon,  to  defeat  the  force  of  restrictive  measures, 
and  enable  a  down-trodden  party  partially  to  circulate 
its  doctrines;  and  hence  the  Abb6  Galiani  has  defined 
the  sublime  oratoire  as  the  art  of  saying  everything 
without  being  sent  to  the  Bastile,  in  an  age  when  one 
is  prohibited  from  saying  anything.  But  one  has  only 
to  look  at  France  and  Austria  as  they  were  till  within 
a  few  years, — indeed,  at  the  whole  continent  of  Europe, 
—  to  see  how  completely,  for  all  practical  purposes,  the 
expression  of  opinion  may  be  silenced  by  bayonets  and 
cannon. 

One  of  the  most  deeply-rooted  popular  fallacies  is 
the  opinion  that  persecution  never  succeeds,  but  only 
adds  strength  and  force  to  the  thing  persecuted.  A 
stereotyped  illustration  of  this  subject  is  the  dam 
ming  up  of  a  river,  which  breaks  forth,  by-and-by,  with 
redoubled  violence  and  fury.  But  history  discourses  no 
such  monotonous  music.  The  martyr's  blood  has  not 
always  fallen  on  fruitful  soil.  Many  a  heresy  has 
died  in  the  bud,  which,  had  it  been  left  to  ripen  un 
molested,  would  have  blown  into  a  victorious  creed  and 
a  dominant  church.  The  popular  opinion  on  this  sub 
ject  would  not  easily  have  gained  credence  a  few  centu 
ries  ago.  Mr.  Mill  has  shown,  in  his  essay  on  Liberty, 
that  it  is  one  of  those  pleasant  falsehoods  which  meu 


POPULAR   FALLACIES.  77 

repeat  one  after  another,  till  they  pass  into  common 
places,  but  which  all  history  refutes.  Twenty  times 
before  Luther  the  Reformation  broke  out,  and  was  put 
down ;  Savonarola  was  put  down ;  the  Albigenses  were 
put  down;  the  Lollards  were  put  down;  the  Hussites 
were  put  down;  and  so  were  the  followers  of  Luther 
everywhere,  except  where  the  heretics  were  too  strong 
to  be  effectually  persecuted.  In  Spain,  Italy,  Flanders, 
and  the  Austrian  Empire,  Protestantism  was  rooted  out; 
and,  had  Mary  lived,  or  Elizabeth  died,  the  same  prob 
ably  would  have  been  its  fate  in  England.  It  is  a 
piece  of  idle  sentimentality,  says  Mr.  Mill,  to  affirm 
that  truth  has  any  inherent  power,  denied  to  error,  of 
prevailing  against  the  dungeon  and  the  stake.  The 
sum  of  the  matter  is,  that  it  is  only  at  a  time  when  it 
appears 

Willing  to  wound,  and  yet  afraid  to  strike, 

when  it  only  teases  and  irritates,  without  destroying, 
that  persecution  is  followed  by  an  effect  contrary  to 
that  intended.  "Persecution  not  effectual!"  exclaims  a 
writer, — "it  might  be  as  proper  to  say  that  steel  and 
poison  do  not  kill.  The  real  truth  is,  that  there  is  a 
tendency  in  things,  under  a  certain  amount  of  perse 
cution,  to  rise  into  greater  vigor,  as  fire  burns  more 
brightly  under  a  slight  sprinkling  of  water ;  but,  under 
a  sufficient  amount  of  persecution,  their  repression  is  as 
unavoidable  as  the  extinction  of  the  same  fire  by  a  suffi 
cient  quantity  of  water." 

Of  all  the  plausible  fallacies  which  pass  current  in 
spite  of  repeated  exposures  of  their  shallowness,  there  is 
no  one  which  has  got  a  firmer  hold  upon  the  public 
mind  than  that  of  the  encouragement  given  to  industry 
by  lavish  expenditure, —  the  fallacy  contained  in  the 


78  POPULAR  FALLACIES. 

saying,  "It  is  always  circulating  money."  Chide  a 
"fast"  man  of  your  acquaintance  for  his  reckless  ex 
penditures,  and  he  meets  you  with  the  triumphant 
reply  that  he  is  doing  infinitely  more  good  by  spend 
ing  than  by  hoarding;  he  is  a  blessing  to  his  race, —  a 
public  benefactor;  he  is  "doing  all  he  can  to  circulate 
money."  Half-a-dozen  young  epicures  meet  at  a  hotel 
or  a  restaurant,  and  order  a  dinner  at  five  or  ten  dollars 
a  head;  they  guzzle  or  waste  food  and  wine,  the  price 
of  which  would  maintain  an  ordinary  family  a  month ; 
this  unenjoyed,  unenjoyable  excess  is  not  only  not  cen 
surable,  it  is  absolutely  praiseworthy, — "  for,  d'ye  see  ?  it 
is  always  circulating  money."  The  economists,  on  the 
other  hand,  who  husband  their  means,  are  denounced 
without  stint  or  measure.  "  They  lock  up  money  and 
keep  it  from  circulating.  Nobody  is  the  better  for  it, — 
not  even  themselves."  The  truth,  on  the  contrary,  is 
that  the  savers  of  money  are  the  chief  benefactors  of  a 
country,  for  it  is  by  them,  more  than  by  any  other 
citizens,  that  not  only  its  material,  but  its  moral  inter 
ests,  are  advanced.  Railways,  telegraphs,  schools,  col 
leges,  public  libraries,  museums, — public  works  in  which 
hosts  of  laborers  are  employed, —  are  only  possible  be 
cause  of  these  savings.  The  accumulations  of  the  sor- 
didest  miser  are  as  serviceable  as  the  coin  in  a  trader's 
till;  for  they  are  employed  in  bank  business,  in  manu 
factures,  in  building,  in  printing,  in  a  thousand  forms 
of  hired  capital,  besides  paying  a  constant  and  ever- 
increasing  tax  to  the  State.  They  not  only  give  imme 
diate  employment  to  as  much  industry  as  the  spend 
thrift  employs  during  his  entire  career,  but,  coming 
back  with  increase  by  the  sale  of  the  goods  which  have 
been  manufactured,  or  the  houses  built,  form  a  fund 
for  the  employment  of  the  same  or  a  greater  amount 


POPULAR   FALLACIES.  79 

of  labor  perpetually.  But  money  spent  uselessly, —  as 
upon  the  turf,  for  costly  wines,  or  high-priced  luxuries, 
—  or  money  spent  for  vanity,  and  not  for  enjoyment,  is 
absolutely  wasted.  It  maintains  persons  whose  labor, 
that  might  have  been  useful  to  the  community,  is  of 
no  actual  benefit,  either  to  the  spenders  or  to  mankind. 
When  a  dollar's  worth  of  food  is  needlessly  consumed, 
the  community  is  made  just  a  dollar  poorer.  When  a 
dollar  is  saved,  and  loaned,  or  employed,  its  power  to 
bless  the  community  has  no  limit  in  time,  for  all  the 
great  operations  of  concentrated  labor,  by  which  a 
country  is  made  a  desirable  one  to  live  in,  are  the 
results  of  capital  thus  husbanded.  The  careless  ob 
server,  however,  does  not  see  what  becomes  of  the 
economist's  money;  he  does  see  what  becomes  of  the 
spendthrift's;  and  observing  that  it  feeds  a  certain 
amount  of  industry,  though  immeasurably  less  than  it 
would  have  fed  if  saved  and  loaned,  hastily  concludes 
that  prodigality  encourages  industry,  and  parsimony 
discourages  it. 

Another  fallacy,  hardly  less  popular  than  the  fore 
going  is  the  hackneyed  saying,  "Contentment  is  better 
than  riches,"  which  graces  so  many  copy-books,  and  on 
which  so  many  changes  have  been  rung  by  a  certain 
class  of  moralists.  Tell  a  languid,  unenterprising  man 
that  you  are  brooding  on  some  scheme,  Californian, 
Australian,  or  otherwise,  by  which  to  better  your  worldly 
condition,  and  with  a  deprecating  look  and  an  ominous 
shake  of  the  head  he  will  croak  to  you  the  old  saw,  or 
some  other  hydropathic  adage,  to  damp  your  zeal  and 
fright  you  from  your  purpose,  with  as  confident  an  air 
as  if  nobody  had  ever  challenged  its  truthfulness.  It 
would  be  interesting  to  know  how  such  a  sentiment 
gained  currency  in  these  times;  for,  certainly,  it  is 


80  POPULAR   FALLACIES. 

one  of  those  sentimentalities  that  seem  better  fitted  for 
the  golden  age  than  for  the  bustle  and  shock  of  this 
fiery,  "go-ahead"  period  in  the  world's  history. 

To  be  contented, — what,  indeed,  is  it  ?  Is  it  not  to  be 
satisfied, —  to  hope  for  nothing,  to  aspire  to  nothing,  to 
strive  for  nothing, —  in  short,  to  rest  in  inglorious  ease, 
doing  nothing  for  your  country,  for  your  own  or  others' 
material,  intellectual,  or  moral  improvement,  satisfied 
with  the  condition  in  which  you  or  they  are  placed? 
Such  a  state  of  feeling  may  do  very  well  where  nature 
has  fixed  an  inseparable  and  ascertained  barrier, —  a 
"thus  far  shalt  thou  go  and  no  farther," — to  our 
wishes,  or  where  we  are  troubled  by  ills  past  remedy. 
In  such  cases  it  is  the  highest  philosophy  not  to  fret  or 
grumble,  when,  by  all  our  worrying  and  self-teasing,  we 
cannot  help  ourselves  a  jot  or  tittle,  but  only  aggravate 
and  intensify  an  affliction  that  is  incurable.  To  soothe 
the  mind  down  into  patience  is  then  the  only  resource 
left  us,  and  happy  is  he  who  has  schooled  himself  thus 
to  meet  all  reverses  and  disappointments.  But  in  the 
ordinary  circumstances  of  life,  this  boasted  virtue  of 
contentment,  so  far  from  being  laudable,  would  be  an 
evil  of  the  first  magnitude.  It  would  be,  in  fact, 
nothing  less  than  a  trigging  of  the  wheels  of  all 
enterprise, —  a  cry  of  "Stand  still!"  to  the  progress  of 
the  whole  social  world. 

What  is  it  that  contrives  machinery,  builds  and 
freights  ships,  beautifies  cities,  encourages  the  arts,  writes 
books,  and  promotes  the  wealth,  intelligence  and  com 
fort  of  a  free  and  happy  nation?  Not  contentment, 
certainly.  Not  contempt  for  that  "competence"  which 
millions  are  striving  for,  and  which  has  been  happily 
defined  as  three  hundred  a  year  more  than  you  possess. 
Man  is  naturally  an  active,  progressive  being,  destined 


POPULAR   FALLACIES.  81 

to  be  perpetually  improving  himself  and  his  condition, 
and  he  can  have  no  sympathy  with  so  sleepy,  passive  a 
virtue,  without  violating  the  first  law  of  his  nature. 
Providence  has  ordered  that  he  shall  work  out  his  own 
happiness,  and  the  very  means  it  has  employed  to  make 
sure  that  he  shall  go  on  in  the  fulfillment  of  its 
designs,  is  that  inability  to  content  himself  with  what 
he  possesses,  or  has  done,  which  sentimentalists  declaim 
against  as  one  of  the  worst  features  in  his  character. 
It  is  this  which  feeds  and  clothes  him,  furnishes  him 
with  all  the  luxuries,  all  the  elegancies  and  amenities 
of  life,  stimulates  him  to  accumulate  capital  to  produce 
great  social  ends,  and  incites  him  to  strain  alike  for 
intellectual  and  moral  improvement.  It  is,  indeed,  the 
glory  of  the  world  that  nothing  in  it  is  stationary,  or 
rests  contented  with  itself,  but  that  to  whatever  peak 
of  excellence  it  climbs,  it  sees  "hills  peep  o'er  hills,  and 
Alps  on  Alps  arise:" — 

Spring's  real  glory  lies  not  in  the  meaning, 
Gracious  though  it  be,  of  her  blue  hours, 

But  is  hidden  in  her  tender  leaning 

To  the  summer's  richer  wealth  of  flowers. 

It  has  been  truly  said,  that  from  the  polyp  to  the 
saint,  there  is  a  perpetual  striving, —  a  divine  dissatis 
faction.  Even  the  inorganic  world  would  organize 
itself;  the  groping  atoms  struggle  into  cells;  and  in 
every  geologic  period  there  are  prophetic  intimations  of 
a  more  lofty  that  is  yet  to  be. 

With  the  civilized  man  contentment  is  a  myth.  From 
the  cradle  to  the  grave  he  is  forever  longing  and  striv 
ing  after  something  better,  an  indefinable  something, 
some  new  object  yet  unattained.  No  doubt  this  feeling 
often  takes  a  wrong  direction,  and  manifests  itself  in 


82  POPULAR   FALLACIES. 

ambition,  envy,  grumbling,  fretfulness,  and  other  ex 
cesses;  but  so  may  every  principle  of  our  nature  be 
perverted;  and  even  in  this  unregulated  state,  it  is  far 
better  than  that  contented  feeling  which  leads  a  man 
to  sit  down  with  his  hands  in  his  breeches  pockets, 
leaving  everything  to  chance,  and  making  no  effort  to 
improve  his  condition.  But  the  truth  is,  that  the 
man  whose  thoughts  and  energies  are  all  needed  for, 
and  constantly  employed  in,  efforts  to  reach  a  higher 
position,  is  the  person  of  all  men  least  likely  to  let  his 
mind  brood  sulkily  and  discontentedly  upon  things 
either  not  worth  attaining,  or  which  are  not  so  to  him. 

Had  Milton  been  a  contented  man,  would  he  have 
given  to  the  world  his  grand  epic?  Had  Shakspeare 
been  a  contented  man,  instead  of  one  who  "  troubled 
deaf  heaven  with  his  bootless  cries,"  and  "  cursed  his 
fate,"  which  led  him  "  to  make  himself  a  motley  to  the 
view,"  —  to  "gore  his  own  thoughts,"  and  "sell  cheap 
what  is  most  dear,"  —  would  he  have  delighted  the 
world  with  those  matchless  creations,  Hamlet,  Lear, 
and  Macbeth? 

Would  Byron,  if  contented,  have  written  Childe 
Harold?  Would  a  contented  man  have  painted  the 
(.'Mrtoons;  or,  had  Columbus  been  such,  would  he  have 
discovered  America?  No,  surely;  such  a  benumbing, 
paralyzing  principle  as  contentment  and  the  lofty  aspi 
rations  of  genius  cannot  co-exist  in  the  same  soul. 
As  well  might  you  talk  of  a  sedentary  will-o-the-wisp, 
a  brick  balloon,  or  a  lazy  lightning.  Depend  upon  it, 
the  nonsense  of  contentment  and  a  cottage  is  pretty  in 
the  page  of  the  poet  or  novelist  only,  never  in  actual 
life.  The  virtue  is  one  which  the  rich  are  always 
anxious  to  find  in  the  poor,  —  one  which  every  man 
likes  to  see  his  neighbor  practise,  —  but  which  no  one 


POPULAR   FALLACIES.  83 

cares  to  practise  himself.  In  fact,  as  Mr.  J.  S.  Mill, 
in  his  book  on  "Representative  Government,"  suggests, 
the  great  mass  even  of  seeming  contentment  "is  real 
discontent,  combined  with  indolence  or  self-indulgence, 
which,  while  taking  no  legitimate  means  of  raising 
itself,  delights  in  bringing  others  down  to  its  own  level." 

Look  at  the  effects  of  this  feeling  upon  nations. 
Was  the  free  and  fiery  Spartan,  or  the  noble  Roman, 
famed  for  it?  Does  it  characterize  the  English,  with 
their  "hungry  heart,"  of  which  one  of  their  poets 
speaks?  Or  do  we  not,  in  fact,  find  it  in  the  highest 
perfection  among  the  ignorant  and  degraded  serfs  of 
Russia,  who,  when  in  the  most  abject  slavery,  hardly 
evinced  a  wish  for  freedom?  Do  we  not  see  it  in  the 
habits  of  the  American  Indians,  who  sneer  at  all  the 
courses  of  industry,  so  long  as  they  can  gather  fish 
from  the  rivers  or  game  from  the  forests?  Is  it  not  a 
notorious  trait  of  the  peasantry  of  Ireland,  who,  if  they 
have  "murphies"  enough,  are  content  to  live  in  idle 
ness,  though  exposed  to  a  host  of  what  other  people 
would  call  frightful  evils?  Does  it  not  characterize 
such  persons  as  constitute  the  dregs  of  every  civilized 
community,  who,  deeply  as  we  may  deprecate  the  con 
duct  of  selfish  and  grasping  men,  that  strive  and  toil 
for  wealth  and  worldly  aggrandizement,  without  any 
higher  views,  are  not  above  such  a  life,  but  below  it? 

What  keeps  such  persons  down  in  the  world,  besides 
lack  of  capacity,  is  not  a  philosophical  contempt  of 
riches  or  honors,  but  thoughtlessness  and  improvidence, 
a  love  of  sluggish  torpor,  and  of  present  gratification. 
It  is  not  from  preferring  virtue  to  wealth, —  the  goods 
of  the  mind  to  those  of  fortune, —  that  they  take  so 
little  thought  for  the  morrow;  but  from  want  of 
forethought  and  stern  self-command.  The  restless, 


84  POPULAR    FALLACIES. 

ambitious  man  too  often  directs  these  qualities  to  an 
unwortny  object;  the  contented  man  is  generally  defi 
cient  in  the  qualities  themselves.  The  one  is  a  stream, 
that  flows  too  often  in  a  wrong  channel,  and  needs  to 
have  ita  course  altered;  the  other  is  a  stagnant  pool. 


FACES. 


"OEADER,  do  you  believe  in  physiognomy,  —  that 
JL\  there  are  in  our  faces,  as  Sir  Thomas  Browne  says, 
"  certain  mystical  signs  which  carry  on  them  the  motto 
of  our  souls,"  revealing  our  inner  selves  as  clearly  as  if 
we  carried  a  pane  of  glass  in  our  breasts?  Do  you 
pique  yourself  upon  being  "  a  reader  of  character ; "  or, 
do  you  believe,  with  a  shrewd  observer,  that 

There's  no  art 
To  find  the  mind's  construction  in  the  face  ? 

There  are  few  persons  who  boggle  at  the  generalities 
of  the  science;  but  when  it  comes  to  minute  detail, — 
as  when  Lavater  talks  of  a  kind  of  nose  which  is 
worth  a  kingdom, — it  is  hard  to  have  faith,  even  as 
large  as  a  grain  of  mustard  seed.  The  countenance 
may  be  rightly  defined  as  the  title-page  which  heralds 
the  contents  of  the  human  volume,  but,  like  other  title- 
pages,  it  sometimes  puzzles,  often  misleads,  and  often 
says  nothing  to  the  purpose.  Many  a  man  bears  a 
motto  on  his  shield,  which,  however  true  for  his  father 
from  whom  he  inherited  it,  is  false  for  the  son.  Not 
always  does  a  fair  soul,  as  Plato  supposed,  choose  a 
fair  body  to  dwell  in;  nor  are  scoundrels  uniformly, 
in  eyes,  nose,  and  mouth,  "marked  and  quoted  to  be 
villains."  Nature  cuts  queer  capers  with  men's  phizes 
at  times,  and  confounds  all  the  deductions  of  philoso- 


8«  FACES. 

phy.  Character  does  not  put  all  of  its  goods,  some 
times  not  any  of  them,  in  its  shop  window.  Socrates 
had  an  ugly  frontispiece;  and  some  of  the  most  vir 
tuous  and  amiable  men  have  had  faces  which  a  stranger 
would  not  like  to  have  encountered  in  a  lonely  place 
after  nightfall.  We  have  seen  "foreheads  villanous 
low "  on  very  noble  men,  and  grand  domes  of  heads 
on  mere  blocks  and  ignoramuses.  It  is  often  true,  as 
Moore  sings,  that 

In  vain  we  fondly  strive  to  trace 
.       The  soul's  reflection  in  the  face; 

In  vain  we  dwell  on  lines  and  crosses, 

Crooked  mouths,  or  short  probosces; 

Boobies  have  looked  as  wise  and  bright 

As  Plato  and  the  Stagyrite ; 

And  many  a  sage  and  learned  skull 

Has  peeped  through  windows  dark  and  dull. 

DeQuincey,  in  expatiating  on  the  meanness  of  Dr. 
Parr's  personal  appearance,  and  his  coarse  and  ignoble 
features,  adds,  —  "I  that  write  this  paper  have  myself 
a  mean  personal  appearance,"  —  and  attributes  the 
peculiarity  to  the  original  unkindness  of  nature.  It  is 
said  of  the  great  Russian  military  hero,  Suwarrow,  that, 
when  engaged  in  business,  he  looked  a  man,  but,  while 
entertaining  company,  would  walk  about  the  room  with 
bent  knees,  and  head  and  hands  hanging  down,  like 
an  idiot.  Some  of  the  boldest  and  most  determined 
men  have  had  weak  mouths,  and  some  of  the  most 
timid  and  fickle  a  firm-set  lip  and  a  defiant  eye.  It 
has  been  remarked  that  one  of  the  bravest  of  our 
young  generals  in  the  late  war, — a  rough-rider,  and 
reckless  in  battle  to  the  verge  of  madness,  —  is  a  gen 
tleman  so  unobtrusive  in  address,  and  so  gentle  of  face, 
that  a  stranger,  meeting  him  casually,  would  at  once 


FACES.  87 

place  him  in  the  category  of  temporizing  souls  who 
are  supposed  incapable  of  saying  boo  to  a  goose.  Bret 
Harte,  speaking  of  the  fugitives  from  justice  at  "Roar 
ing  Camp,"  says  that,  "physically,  they  exhibited  no 
indication  of  their  past  lives  and  character.  The  great 
est  scamp  had  a  Eaphael  face,  with  a  profusion  of 
blonde  hair;  Oakhurst,  a  gambler,  had  the  melancholy 
character  and  intellectual  abstraction  of  a  Hamlet ;  the 
coolest  and  most  courageous  man  was  scarcely  over  five 
feet  in  height,  with  a  soft  voice,  and  an  embarrassed, 
timid  manner." 

It  is  a  curious  fact  that  many  of  the  men  who 
have  been  most  distinguished  for  their  power  to  raise 
comic  ideas  have  had  lugubrious  visages,  suggestive  of 
tears  rather  than  of  merriment.  Grimaldi,  the  prince 
of  clowns,  was  a  dull,  heavy-looking  man  off  the  stage, 
and  so  was  Listen,  who,  maddened  London  nightly  with 
his  fun.  Robert  Chambers  tells  in  one  of  his  essays  of 
a  person  residing  near  London,  who  could  make  one's 
sides  ache  at  any  time  with  his  comic  songs,  yet  had 
so  rueful,  woe-begone  a  face  that  his  friends  addressed 
him  by  the  name  of  Mr.  Dismal.  What  wit  or  humorist 
ever  lived  who  could  so  effectually  "create  a  soul  under 
the  ribs  of  death"  by  his  jests,  as  poor  Tom  Hood? 
His  writings,  as  all  the  world  knows,  are  steeped -in 
the  very  quintessence  of  fun ;  the  drollest,  oddest  fancies 
and  conceits  sparkle  on  his  page  as  incessantly  as  fire 
flies  in  an  Indian  grove.  Yet  who  that  ever  had  a 
glimpse  of  his  pictured  phiz,  so  grave  and  melancholy- 
looking, —  as  if  he  had  done  nothing  all  his  life  but 
stare  at  death's-heads  and  statues  of  "  Niobe,  all  tears," — 
would  have  dreamed  that  he  was  not  a  modern  Herac- 
litus,  a  sexton,  an  undertaker,  anything  rather  than 
a  professor  of  the  Pantagruelian  philosophy,  and  author 


88  FACES. 

of  the  queer  conceits  that  till  his  "Own?"  His  face 
"insinuates  such  a  false  Hood,"  that  one  would  fancy 
that  nothing  less  than  galvanism  could  shock  its 
features  into  any  demonstration  of  fun ;  and,  instead  of 
being  suited  to  adorn  a  comic  almanac,  it  seems  better 
fitted  for  a  frontispiece  to  Burton's  "Anatomy  of  Melan 
choly."  In  fact,  the  owner  tells  us  that  he  was  actually 
taken  many  times  for  a  Methodist  minister,  and,  on  his 
march  to  Berlin  with  the  Prussian  infantry,  could  never 
pass  himself  off  for  anybody  but  the  chaplain  of  the 
regiment.  Cervantes,  Swift,  Molidre,  afford  additional 
instances  of  comic  geniuses  whose  physiognomies  have 
belied  their  characters. 

As  the  merriest  men  have  sometimes  the  soberest 
faces,  so  the  most  serious-minded  have  mirthful  ones. 
It  has  been  said  of  Wilberforce,  that  his  countenance 
was  so  merry,  rosy,  and  good-fellowish,  that  he  seemed 
more  like  a  jovial  son  of  Momus  or  Bacchus,  than  a 
devout  Christian,  as  he  was  intus  et  in  cute,  and  a 
champion  of  abolition.  The  poet  Young,  whose  writ 
ings  are  so  gloomy  that  it  has  been  doubted  whether 
their  author  was  ever  young,  had  anything  but  the 
ghostly  face  one  would  give  to  him  after  reading  the 
"Night  Thoughts."  It  is  well  known,  however,  that  he 
was  till  fifty  a  desperate  place-hunter,  after  which  he 
turned  State's-evidence  against  the  world,  and  satirized 
the  pursuits  in  which  he  had  failed.  One  can  easily 
imagine  what  a  clog  and  hindrance  to  success  in  any 
profession  must  be  a  physiognomy  unsuited  to  it.  Who 
does  not  hesitate  to  employ  a  broker  who  has  "no 
speculation  in  his  eye," — a  lawyer  who,  instead  of  a 
keen,  vulture-eyed  look,  has  a  jovial,  benevolent  expres 
sion, — or  a  schoolmaster  with  so  comic  a  phiz  that  his 


FACES.  89 

pupils    would    be    forever    grinning,    instead    of   being 
"boding  tremblers,"  who 

Had  learned  to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face? 

Charles  Lamb  has  well  described  the  distrust  we 
feel  of  such  men  in  his  ludicrous  account  of  the  Quaker 
"of  the  old  Foxian  orgasm,"  whom  he  heard  express 
ing  his  remorse  at  a  meeting,  that  "  he  had  been  a  wit 
in  his  youth,"  while  his  brow  would  have  scared  away 
the  Levities,  the  Jocos  Risusque,  faster  than  the  Loves 
fled  the  face  of  Dis  at  Euna!  Some  years  ago,  in  the 
East,  there  was  a  little  bandy-legged  comedian,  who, 
finding  that  the  stage  did  not  pay,  abandoned  it  for 
the  medical  profession,  but  could  make  no  headway  on 
account  of  his  "  villanous  merry  visage."  He  tried 
every  way  to  look  grave  and  wise,  but  hadn't  "the 
power  of  face."  In  spite  of  every  effort,  he  carried 
into  his  new  calling  his  old,  merry  smirk,  and  the 
roguish  twinkle  of  his  eyes;  so  that,  while  his  patients 
were  groaning  with  pain,  he  seemed  to  be  perpetually 
giggling  at  their  distress.  He  next  tried  the  law,  but 
even  in  his  most  frantic  appeals,  when  he  pulled  his 
hair  and  tore  his  coat-tails,  no  jury  would  believe  him 
in  earnest;  and  so  he  abandoned  this  calling,  too, 
declaring  that  his  facetious  face  would  be  the  ruin 
of  him  in  any  serious  vocation.  Not  less  unhappy  in 
his  physiognomy  was  an  Irish  comedian  of  brilliant 
talents,  who  believed  himself  cut  out  intellectually  for 
high  tragedy,  while  his  face  and  figure  compelled  him 
to  perform  only  comic  parts.  In  his  own  opinion,  fat 
and  fortune  only  had  made  him  a  comedian ;  and,  while 
he  elicited  shouts  of  laughter  as  a  bog-trotter,  with 
buskins  composed  of  straw-ropes,  he  thought  only  "  how 


!i(»  FACES. 

great  a  Kemble  was  iu  a  Patrick  lost,"  and  viewed  him 
self  as  one  who  should  have  been  exciting  pity  or 
horror  as  Lear  or  Macbeth. 

Anomalies  like  these  do  not  invalidate  the  general 
truth,  that  the  mind  stamps  its  character  on  the  fea 
tures  of  the  face.  It  is  still  true  that,  as  the  Scripture 
says,  "  a  man  may  be  known  by  his  look,  and  one  that 
has  understanding  by  his  countenance  when  thou  meet- 
est  him."  How  often  do  we  hit  upon  the  character  of 
a  stranger  at  a  glance,  with  a  thousand-fold  more 
accuracy  than  if  we  were  to  make  it  the  subject  of 
long  and  laborious  study !  The  ruling  principle  of  the 
man  flashes  upon  us  instantly,  from  some  peculiar 
expression  imprinted  upon  the  features  by  the  thoughts 
and  feelings  of  years,  when,  if  we  were  to  wait  and 
judge  by  the  equivocal  signs  of  words  and  deeds,  we 
might  be  led  into  the  grossest  error.  Montaigne 
observes  that,  in  a  crowd  of  victorious  enemies,  you 
shall  presently  choose,  amongst  men  you  never  saw 
before,  one  rather  than  another  to  whom  to  surren 
der,  and  to  whom  to  entrust  your  life.  It  is  said  of 
the  celebrated  physiognomist,  Lavater,  that  a  stranger 
was  once  introduced  to  him,  whose  features,  though  he 
exhibited  high  intellectual  endowments  and  the  most 
accomplished  manners,  impressed  him  at  once  with  the 
conviction, — "This  man  is  a  murderer."  Dining  with 
him  the  next  day,  Lavater  forgot  his  impression ;  but 
scarcely  had  the  elegant  and  polished  gentleman  left 
town,  when  news  came  that  he  was  an  assassin,  who  had 
fled  from  Sweden  to  escape  arrest.  Douglas  Jerrold,  in 
one  of  his  plays,  makes  one  of  the  persona  thus  com 
ment  on  the  looks  of  another :  "  You  have  a  most 
Tyburn-like  physiognomy.  There's  Turpin  in  the  curl 
of  your  upper  lip,—  Jack  Shepherd  in  the  under  one,— 


FACES.  91 

Duval  and  Barrington  are  in  your  eyes, —  and  as  for 
your  chin,  why,  Sixteen-String  Jack  lives  in  it!"  Even 
Moore,  whose  thrust  at  the  physiognomists  we  have 
quoted,  betrays  his  belief  in  their  general  principles  by 
giving  to  the  veiled  prophet  of  Khorassan  a  visage  fit  for 
his  hideous  soul,  while  the  young  Nourmahal,  the  light 
of  the  harem,  has  features  worthy  of  an  angel: 

While  her  laugh,  full  of  life,  without  any  control, 
But  the  sweet  one  of  gracefulness,  rung  from  her  soul ; 
And  where  it  most  sparkled,  no  glance  could  discover 
In  lips,  cheeks  or  eyes,  for  it  brightened  all  over, — 
Like  any  fair  lake  that  the  breeze  was  upon, 
When  it  breaks  into  dimples,  and  laughs  in  the  sun. 

It  is  a  fact  well  fitted  to  provoke  serious  thought, 
that  the  spiritual  principle  moulds  and  fashions  the 
plastic  substance  of  its  home, — that  it  writes  its  own 
character  on  its  exterior  walls,  and  chronicles  from 
month  to  month,  from  year  to  year,  its  upward  aspira 
tions,  or  its  increasing  abasement.  Even  after  one  has 
reached  middle  life,  the  face  may  undergo  great  changes ; 
and  many  a  human  countenance  becomes  a  drama  of 
profound  interest, — "a  visible  incarnation  of  the  Mani- 
chaean  dream," — mirroring,  as  it  does,  with  terrible 
fidelity,  the  alternations  of  a  fierce  inward  struggle  be 
tween  good  and  evil,  darkness  and  light.  Somewhere 
in  our  readings  we  have  met  with  the  story  of  a 
painter,  who,  seeing  a  beautiful  child,  was  so  fascinated 
by  the  loveliness  of  its  face  that  he  resolved  to  paint 
it.  He  did  so,  and  hung  the  picture,  his  favorite,  in 
his  study.  It  became  a  kind  of  guardian  angel;  in 
sorrow  and  in  passion  he  tranquillized  his  soul  by 
gazing  upon  that  heavenly  countenance.  By-and-by  he 
resolved,  should  he  ever  find  its  counterpart,  to  paint 


92  FACES. 

that  also  ;>  but  years  passed,  aiid  he  was  despairing  of 
ever  tindiiig  the  latter,  when  he  discovered  a  face  so 
intensely  ugly  as  fully  to  realize  his  idea.  It  was  that 
of  a  wretch  lying  in  despair  upon  the  floor  of  his 
prison  celL  He  painted  that  terrible  face;  but  what 
were  his  emotions  when  he  learned  that  it  was  the 
same  person  he  had  painted  before!  The  first  was  the 
face  of  the  innocent  child, —  the  last,  that  of  the  profli 
gate,  ruined  youth.  The  likeness  of  an  angel  hud  been 
transformed  into  the  reality  of  a  fiend. 


COMPULSORY    MORALITY. 


ONE  of  the  saddest  .signs  of  the  times  we  live  in,  is 
the  increasing  scepticism  which  good  men  mani 
fest  regarding  the  efficacy  of  moral  influences  in  re 
pressing  vice.  After  ages  of  bitter  experience, —  after 
Bartholomews,  auto-da-fes,  and  "  booted  missions  "  with 
out  number, —  the  world  has  at  last  learned  that  the 
true  way  to  exterminate  heresy  is  not  by  the  sword, 
the  dungeon,  or  the  stake,  but  by  letting  truth  and 
error  grapple.  When  will  men  also  learn  that  sin  is  to 
be  exterminated,  not  by  the  "beggarly  elements"  of  force 
and  compulsion,  but  by  the  moral  weapons  of  argument 
and  persuasion?  When  will  they  learn  that  to  reform 
men  by  force, — to  break  down  individual  independence, 
whether  of  judgment  or  choice, —  to  frown  and  scold 
men  into  self-denial, — to  rely  upon  custom,  law,  opinion, 
anything  rather  than  conviction  and  persuasion,  as  the 
means  of  changing  moral  conduct, — to  jam  the  reluc 
tant  between  a  noisy  public  sentiment  on  the  one  hand, 
and  a  statutory  prohibition  on  the  other,  and  to  drive 
them,  thus  guarded,  into  the  line  of  sobriety  and 
morality, — is  the  worst  kind  of  scepticism,  because  it  is 
a  distrust  of  the  holiest  influences,  a  substitution  of 
mechanism  for  soul,  law  for  gospel? 

That  philanthropists  should  sometimes  get  impatient, 
and,  in  moments  of  exhaustion,  doubt  the  efficacy  of 
moral  influences  in  regenerating  the  world,  we  can  well 


94  COMPULSORY    MORALITY. 

understand;  but  that  the  wheels  of  reform  can  ever  be 
made  to  revolve  more  swiftly  by  applying  to  them  the 
strong  arm  of  the  law,  all  history  disproves.  What 
lasting  progress  was  ever  made  in  social  reformation, 
-'except  when  every  step  was  insured  by  appeals  to  the 
understanding  and  the  will?  Who  that  has  read  the 
history  of  sumptuary  laws,  laws  restraining  amusements, 
and  other  such  rude  agencies,  does  not  know  that  what 
is  seemingly  gained  by  them  is  gained  only  while  these 
agencies  operate,  and  is  invariably  followed  by  a  reac 
tion?  Are  nations  essentially  different  from  individuals, 
:in%do  ^jiot  the  latter,  when  forced  to  do  right  against 
their  will,  avenge  the  insult  to  their  manhood  by  doing 
wrong  wilfully  where  before  they  did  it  thoughtlessly 
or  from  inveterate  habit?  Dam  up  the  stream  of  vice 
by  rigid  laws,  and^will  it  not  creep  into  other  channels, 
or,  burstin^all  barriers, inundate  regions  through  which 
it  would  otherwise  have  flowed  quietly  ?  The  Puritans 
of  the  English  Commonwealth,  the  forefathers  of  those 
who  would  now  make  men  virtuous  by  law,  tried  to 
<  \tirpate  impiety  by  statutory  enactments,  and  we  know 
the  results.  Scarcely  had  Charles  II.  ascended  the 
throne  when  the  nation,  disgusted  with  the  long  faces 
and  longer  prayers  of  Cromwell's  followers,  and  suddenly 
find  froqfr  therr  tyrannical  restrictions,  rushed  to  the 
opposite  extreme  of 'impiety;  debauchery  was  identified 
with  loyalty,  and  oaths,  deep  draughts,  and  a  contempt 
for  all  the  decencies  of  social  life,  became  the  badges  and 
insignia  of  a  good  cavalier.  Such  will  always  be  the 
result  when  men  are  whipped,  dragooned  and  pilloried 
into  morality,  instead  of  being  coaxed  by  rhetoric  or 
convinced  by  logic. 

It  has  been   truly  said  that  when  honest  men  infer 
from   their    desire  to    do    good,   that    they   have    the 


COMPULSORY   MORALITY.  95 

knowledge  and  talents  requisite  to  govern  wisely,  it  is 
incalculable  what  evil-doers  they  may  innocently  becomef 
A  French  gentleman  once  said  to  the  minister,  Col 
bert,  "  You  found  the  state  carriage  overturned  on  one 
side,  and  you  have  overturned  it  on  the  other."  Not 
unlike  this  is  the  policy  of  those  reformers,  who,  for 
getting  that  a  conflagration  may  be  extinguished  with 
out  a  deluge,  would  overcome  one  extreme  of  evil  by 
turning  to  another  hardly  less  objectionable.  Even 
were  the  experiment  successful  of  making  men  moral 
by  statute,  we  doubt,  whether,  on  the. whole,  the  race 
would  be  benefited.  The  scheme  would  be  akin  to 
that  employed  in  the  Middle  Ages,  when  i  false 
theology  tried  to  make  angels  of  men  by  shutting 
them  up  in  cloisters  and  crushing  their  '-natural  in 
stincts.  Those  who  are  familiar  with  the  history  of 
that  period  will  readily  recall  those  frightful  phe 
nomena,  once  not  uncommon  in  convents,  when  nuns 
suddenly  lapsed  from  the  extremest  austerities  into 
an  almost  demoniac  wickedness,  —  a  fact-  which  only 
shows  the  uncontrollable  vehemence,  of  a  long-denied 
desire.  Saints  made  such  by  social  compulsion  are 
not  men,  but  monsters.  We  have  no  j^ish  to  see 
the  world  filled  with  such ;  we  look  for*  nobler  and 
loftier  results,  more  in  keeping  with  the  dignity  and 
majesty  of  man.  God  has  so  framed  us  as  to  make 
freedom  of  choice  and  action  the  very  basis  of  all 
moral  improvement,  and  all  our  faculties,  mental  and 
moral,  resent  and  revolt  against  the  idea  of  virtue 
by  coercion.  The  whole  scheme  of  Providence  im 
plies  and  is  founded  upon  this  freedom.  Temptations 
abound  on  every  hand.  Means  of  self-indulgence  and 
of  self-ruin  are  furnished  us  in  boundless  profusion. 
There  is  no  good  tHing  which  may  not  be  perverted 


96  COMPULSORY    MORALITY. 

into  an  instrument  of  mischief.  "Do  we  not,"  says 
Sir  Philip  Sydney,  in  his  "Defense  of  Poesy,"  "see 
skill  of  physic,  the  best  rampart  to  our  often  assaulted 
bodies,  being  abused,  teach  poison,  the  most  violent 
destroyer?  Doth  not  God's  word  abused  breed  heresy, 
and  His  name  abused  become  blasphemy  ?  With  a 
sword  thou  mayest  kill  thy  father,  and  with  a  sword 
thou  mayest  defend  thy  prince  and  country."  We 
do  not  chop  off  men's  fingers  because  they  become 
pickers  and  stealers;  nor  does  God  withhold  from  us 
the  blessings  of  life  because  they  may  be  made  in 
struments  of  mischief;  and  why?  Because  life  is  a 
discipline,  and  not  a  final  state ;  because  virtue  comes 
through  self-control  by  resistance  to  evil;  and  because 
it  is  better,  and  more  conducive  to  ultimate  progress, 
to  secure  an  independent  and  robust  virtue,  even  at 
the  cost  of  occasional  falls  and  relapses,  than  to  pro 
duce  a  sickly  and  feeble  morality,  which  needs  con 
tinual  props  and  supports,  and  which  has  been  forced 
on  us  from  without,  rather  than  generated  within. 

Who,  indeed,  is  the  truly  virtuous  man  ?  Is  it  he 
who  never  struggles  with  temptation,  —  who  closes  his 
eyes  and  ears,  and  shuts  every  avenue  of  enjoyment, 
that  he  may  escape  the  necessity  of  self-control ;  or  is 
it  he  who  accepts  the  conditions  God  has  imposed  on 
his  life,  and,  instead  of  skulking  from  the  field,  or  re 
tiring  to  some  anchorite's  cave  or  hermit's  cell,  fights 
manfully  the  battles  of  life?  —  who,  indeed,  never  need 
lessly  rushes  to  meet  temptation,  but  who,  trusting  in 
God,  boldly  confronts  it  when  assailed?  Let  John 
Milton  answer  this  question.  Nobly  has  he  said: 
"  He  that  can  apprehend  and  consider  vice,  with  all 
her  baits  and  seeming  pleasures,  and  yet  abstain,  and 
yet  distinguish,  and  yet  prefer  that  which  is  truly  bet- 


COMPULSORY   MORALITY.  97 

ter,  he  is  the  true  warfaring  Christian.  I  cannot 
praise  a  fugitive  and  cloistered  virtue,  unexercised  and 
unbreathed,  that  never  sallies  out  and  seeks  her  adver 
sary,  but  slinks  out  of  the  race,  where  that  immortal 
garland  is  to  be  run  for,  not  without  dust  and  heat." 
Golden  words,  which  have  been  a  thousand  times 
quoted,  but  which  can  never  lose  their  freshness  nor 
value,  because  they  declare  a  principle  which  is  for  all 
time.  It  is  only  by  courtesy  that  this  fugitive  "  virtue  " 
can  be  allowed  the  name.  Self-denial  it  is  not,  but 
simply  abdication  of  self-government  and  responsibility, 
and  out  of  it  can  grow  no  stalwart  and  defiant  virtue, 
but  only  a  dwarfish  and  decent  morality,  or  rather 
effeminacy  and  moral  cowardice,  ready  to  surrender  at 
the  first  attack,  when  assailed  outside  of  the  bulwarks  of 
law. 

Modern  philanthropy  has  yet  to  learn  that  that 
which  purifies  us,  is  trial,  and  that  there  can  be  no 
trial  where  there  is  no  opportunity  to  do  wrong.  It  is 
not  in  the  hothouse  or  well  sheltered  garden,  but  on 
the  Alpine  cliff,  where  the  storm  howls  most  furiously, 
that  the  toughest  plants  are  found.  It  is  not  by  tread 
ing  "the  primrose  paths  of  dalliance,"  but  by  climbing 
the  craggy  steeps  of  difficulty,  that  either  intellectual  or 
moral  athletes  are  reared.  Hence  it  is  that  Spenser, 
describing  his  Temperance  under  the  person  of  Guion, 
brings  him  in  with  his  palmer  through  the  cave  of 
Mammon  and  the  bower  of  earthly  bliss,  that  he  may 
see  and  know  and  yet  abstain.  Men  do  not  learn  to 
swim  by  buoying  themselves  up  with  cork  jackets  and 
life  preservers,  still  less  by  keeping  clear  of  the  water; 
nor  do  they  use  crutches  to  strengthen  their  legs.  No 
doubt,  by  stringent  laws,  we  may  fill  the  world  with 
negative  virtue;  but  let  us  not  cheat  ourselves  into  the 


98  COMPULSORY   MORALITY. 

belief  that,  by  removing  the  provocation  to  sin,  we  have 
removed  the  sin  itself, —  that  we  have  tamed  the  hu 
man  passions,  because  we  have  caged  them  in  law. 

When  will  men  understand  that  many  results, 
desirable  in  themselves,  are  rendered  comparatively 
valueless  by  the  means  employed  to  bring  them  about, 
and  that  a  very  small  amount  of  voluntary  well-doing 
is  worth  immeasurably  more  than  all  the  compulsory 
well-doing  which  legislation  can  effect?  We  may  twist 
and  bend  human  nature  into  fantastic  shapes,  if  we 
will ;  but  that  tough  and  hardy  virtue  which  grows  out 
of  deliberate  choice,  will  always  be  as  much  superior  to 
the  snug  and  trim  morality  which  the  lawgiver  rears, 
as  the  rough,  gnarled  oak,  with  the  grotesque  contor 
tions  of  its  branches,  is  superior  to  the  smoothly-clipped 
uniformity  of  the  Dutch  yew  tree.  Philanthropy  is 
never  so  powerless  as  when  she  leans  on  the  strong 
arm  of  the  law  for  support, —  never  so  mighty  as  when 
she  seeks  to  achieve  her  lofty  ends  by  means  in  har 
mony  with  her  own  spirit.  It  has  been  justly  said  that 
the  vast  amount  of  individual  anxiety,  self-denial,  enter 
prise,  action,  which  the  more  compendious  method  of 
working  by  law  will  supersede,  is  of  far  more  import 
ance  to  permanent  progress  than  the  artificial  order 
which  the  law  may  establish.  Let  the  schemes  of 
modern  sentimentalists  be  adopted ;  let  them,  as  Milton 
says,  "go  on  subtilizing  and  casuisting  till  they  have 
straightened  and  pared  that  liberal  path  which  God  has 
allowed  us  into  a  razor's  edge  to  walk  on;"  let  temper 
ance,  the  support  of  the  church,  and  the  Lord's  day 
observance,  be  handed  over  to  compulsory,  instead  of 
voluntary  effort,  and  all  the  virtue  which  is  now  elicited, 
exercised,  and  matured  in  seeking  the  accomplishment 
of  these  ends  will  remain  dormant  Virtue  will  become 


COMPULSOKY   MORALITY.  99 

mean  and  dwarfish ;  manly  and  robust  morality  will  be 
supplanted  by  a  canting  sentimentalism ;  mere  utilita 
rianism,  with  its  scales  and  hair-balance,  will  become 
the  standard  by  which  every  man's  conduct  will  be 
regulated;  and  a  thin  varnish  of  outward  morality  will 
hide  a  depraved  and  rotten  heart.  Against  such  mea 
sures  we  shall  always  oppose  a  stubborn  resistance, 
believing,  with  another,  that  the  continuance  of  blotches, 
however  frightful,  is  preferable  to  any  skin-deep  cure, 
which  involves  the  destruction  of  the  individuality  of 
virtue. 


THE  POWER  OF  TRIFLES. 


OF  the  various  forms  of  exaggeration  to  which  sen 
sational  writers  and  speakers  are  addicted,  there 
is  none  more  common  than  that  of  attributing  great 
events  to  petty  and  insignificant  causes.  Accident,  the 
sudden  interposition  of  some  trivial  event,  has  been 
supposed  in  thousands  of  cases  to  have  determined  not 
only  the  destinies  of  individuals,  but  those  of  States. 
Matters  of  the  highest  moment  are  assumed  to  have 
been  the  product  of  others  the  most  trivial,  inci 
dental,  capricious,  and  foreign ;  and  but  for  these  minor 
events,  it  is  asserted,  the  greater  would  have  never 
happened.  Not  only  epigrammatists,  who  must  have 
their  antithesis  at  whatever  cost,  but  grave  moralists 
and  philosophers,  are  fond  of  showing  "what  great 
events  from  little  causes  spring,"  and,  in  their  anxiety 
to  point  a  moral,  make  deductions  of  which  a  moment's 
reflection  would  show  the  absurdity.  As  the  fall  of  an 
apple  led  to  the  sublimest  discoveries  in  science,  so,  we 
are  told,  the  slightest  moral  act  may  lead  to  events 
which  no  scale,  save  one  that  can  graduate  eternity, 
can  estimate.  The  first  of  a  series  of  primes  has  often 
been  "a  little  thing," — a  slight  deviation,  by  an  almost 
imperceptible  angle,  from  the  path  of  rectitude;  but, 
though  deemed  of  trifling  moment,  it  has  led  the  mis 
taken  wanderer  eternally  astray.  "A  happy  marriage, 
which  might  have  been  prevented  by  any  one  of 


THE   POWER  OF  TRIFLES.  101 

numberless  accidents,"  says  a  writer  in  an  English 
journal,  "will  lead  a  man  to  take  a  cheerful  view  of 
life.  Some  secret  stab  in  the  affections,  of  which  only 
two  or  three  people  are  aware,  may  convert  a  man,  who 
would  otherwise  have  been  satisfied  and  amiable,  into 
a  stoic,  a  sour  fanatic,  or  a  rebel  against  society,  as  the 
case  may  be.  If  Dante  had  been  personally  happy,  or 
Shakspeare  personally  wretched,  if  Byron  had  married 
Miss  Chaworth,  if  Voltaire  had  met  with  no  personal 
ill-usage,  their  literary  influence  would  have  been  very 
different." 

History,  as  well  as  biography,  is  pointed  to  as  con 
firming  the  same  view.  Was  not  Rome  saved  by  a 
goose,  and  captured  by  a  hare?  Does  not  Pascal  tell 
us,  in  his  brilliant,  epigrammatic  way,  that  if  the  nose 
of  Cleopatra  had  been  shorter,  Antony  might  have  kept 
the  world?  "What  can  be  imagined,  asks  Hume  in  one 
of  his  essays,  more  trivial  than  the  difference  between 
one  color  of  livery  and  another  in  horse-races?  Yet 
this  difference,  he  adds,  "begat  two  most  important 
factions  in  the  Greek  Empire, —  the  Prasini  and  the 
Veneti, — who  never  suspended  their  animosities  till 
they  ruined  that  unhappy  Government."  Does  not 
Duclos  tell  us  that  the  vermin  that  for  a  long  time 
infested  the  Roman  conclave,  by  expediting  the  votes 
of  the  Cardinals,  often  defeated  the  grossest  bribery 
and  corruption,  and  placed  on  the  Papal  throne  men 
who  otherwise  never  would  have  sat  there?  Was  not 
the  Treaty  of  Utrecht,  which  put  an  end  to  the  bloody 
war  of  the  Spanish  Succession,  occasioned  by  a  quarrel 
between  the  Duchess  of  Marlborough  and  Queen  Anne 
about  a  pair  of  gloves?  Have  we  not  been  assured  by 
historians,  that,  had  not  Louis  VII.,  in  obedience  to 
the  injunctions  of  his  Bishops,  cropped  his  head,  and 


102  THE   POWER  OF  TRIFLES. 

shaved  his  beard,  and  thus  rendered  himself  disgustful 
to  his  Queen  Eleanor,  she  would  never  have  been 
divorced,  nor  married  the  Count  of  Anjou,  afterwards 
Henry  II.  of  England,  who  through  her  became  entitled 
to  the  rich  provinces  of  Poitou  and  Guienne;  and  thus 
France  would  have  been  saved  from  the  wars  which 
for  three  centuries  ravaged  her  territory,  and  cost  her 
the  bitterest  humiliations  and  three  millions  of  men? 
Did  not  Cromwell  come  near  being  strangled  in  his 
cradle  by  a  monkey, —  a  wretched  ape  thus  holding  in 
his  paws  the  destinies  of  Europe?  A  grain  of  sand  in 
the  sensorium  of  the  same  Cromwell  re-established  the 
Stuarts,  and  changed  the  fate  of  England.  The 
absence  of  a  comma  decided  the  violent  death  of  the 
predecessor  of  Edward  III.  A  child  plays  with  a  pair 
of  lenses,  and  lo!  myriads  of  new  suns  and  systems 
are  discovered.  Pascal  hears  a  dinner-plate  ring,  and 
he  writes  his  tract  upon  sound.  Cuvier  dissects  a 
cuttle-fish,  and  he  is  prompted  to  solve  the  mystery  of 
the  whole  animal  kingdom.  Thorswalden  sees  a  boy 
in  a  striking  attitude,  and  models  his  Mercury  drawing 
his  sword  after  he  has  played  Argus  to  sleep. 

Who  has  not  listened  to  such  reasoning  as  this,  and 
yet  who,  on  a  moment's  reflection,  does  not  see  that  it 
involves  a  logical  non-sequttur?  Can  any  event  happen 
which  is  not  the  product  of  adequate  causes?  Admit 
that  we  cannot  always  trace  the  causes, —  does  it  follow 
that  they  do  not  exist,  or  that  we  must  ascribe  the  inex 
plicable  occurrence  to  a  blind  and  capricious  Fate  ?  "If 
Dante  had  been  happy,  or  Shakspeare  unhappy,"  their 
entire  careers  would  have  been  different.  No  doubt; 
and  "if  my  aunt  had  been  a  man,  she  would  have  been 
my  uncle."  But  is  human  happiness  the  sport  of  acci 
dent, — of  blind  chance?  Does  it  not  depend  upon 


THE   POWER   OF  TRIFLES.  103 

temperament,  itself  dependent  upon  a  man's  whole  an 
cestry,  and  upon  his  education,  which,  again,  is  dependent 
upon  his  age,  country,  and  a  myriad  of  underlying  con 
ditions?  Have  men  no  wills  by  which  they  can  react 
upon  the  circumstances  that  act  upon  them?  If  men 
become  "stoics  or  sour  fanatics"  after  marriage,  it  is 
because  they  were  previously  prepared  to  be  such  by 
their  mental  and  moral  constitutions.  Whether  a  person 
is  to  be  sweetened  or  soured  by  Hymen  depends  upon 
the  constituents  of  his  mind.  Out  of  the  same  sub 
stances  one  stomach  will  extract  nutriment,  another 
poison;  and  so  the  same  disappointments  in  life  will 
chasten  and  refine  one  man's  spirit,  and  embitter  an 
other's.  If  outward  events  are  to  give  "their  whole 
color"  to  our  lives,  we  shall  all  become  "rebels  against 
society;"  for  where  is  the  man  who  does  not  receive  "a 
secret  stab"  or  an  open  one  in  the  course  of  his  life? 
Is  not  disappointment  the  lot  of  mortals? 

Grant  the  truth  of  the  story  of  Newton  and  the 
apple,  is  it  not  evident  that,  unless  observed  by  a  mind 
already  so  prepared  to  make  the  discovery  that  any 
falling  body  would  have  started  the  train  of  ideas,  the 
falling  of  ten  thousand  apples  would  have  led  to  nQ 
discovery  of  gravitation  ?  When  Oken  picked  up,  in  a 
chance  walk,  the  skull  of  a  deer,  bleached  and  disinte 
grated  by  the  weather,  and  exclaimed,  after  a  glance, 
"It  is  part  of  a  vertebral  column!" — a  reflection  which 
led  to  the  system  of  anatomy  which  has  immortalized 
his  name, —  was  not  this  flash  of  anticipation  the  result 
of  the  deepest  previous  study  of  the  problems  of  the 
animal  kingdom?  Had  the  apple  and  the  deer's  skull 
been  wanting,  would  not  some  other  falling  body,  or 
some  other  skull,  have  touched  the  string  so  ready  to 
vibrate  ?  If  these  discoveries  were  accidental,  it  is  cer- 


104  THE  POWER  OF  TRIPLES. 

tain  that  such  accidents  do  not  happen  to  common 
men.  Again,  would  the  first  petty  crime  necessitate 
the  one  that  leads  to  the  gallows,  did  it  not  argue  a 
lai-k  of  self-control  which  is  the  source  alike  of  pigmy 
and  of  giant  vices?  Would  not  Antony  have  been  An 
tony  still  had  he  never  seen  Egypt's  queen,  and  had 
there  been  no  other  Delilahs  to  ensnare  and  ruin  him  ? 
"They  are  not  skillful  considerers  of  human  things," 
gays  Milton,  "who  imagine  to  remove  sin  by  removing 
the  matter  of  Ein.  Though  ye  take  from  a  covetous 
man  all  his  treasure,  he  has  yet  one  jewel  left;  ye 
cannot  bereave  him  of  his  covetousness."  Of  what  ac 
count,  so  far  as  the  peace  of  Utrecht  was  concerned, 
would  have  been  the  trumpery  quarrel  between  Queen 
Anne  and  the  Duchess  of  Marlborough,  had  not  the 
Tories  longed  to  end  the  war,  so  as  to  get  rid  of  the 
Duke  of  Marlborough,  the  leader  of  the  Whig  party, 
and  had  not  the  Emperor  Joseph  I.  of  Austria  died 
without  heirs,  thus  leaving  the  throne  to  his  brother, 
the  intended  inheritor  of  the  Spanish  monarchy  ?  As 
to  the  grain  of  sand  in  Cromwell's  sensorium,  but  for 
which,  Pascal  says,  the  royal  family  would  have  been 
lost,  and  his  own  established  forever,  there  is  no  evi 
dence  that  this  was  the  cause  of  the  Protector's  death: 
but,  had  he  lived,  it  is  extremely  doubtful  whether  he 
would  have  been  able  to  keep  his  position ;  and,  as  to 
his  family's  retaining  the  sceptre,  no  one  of  them  would 
have  had  the  ghost  of  a  chance. 

Pliny  somewhere  says  that  it  was  the  sight  of  a  fig 
which  caused  the  destruction  of  Carthage;  but  does 
not  every  schoolboy  know  better?  It  was  the  deep, 
undying  hatred  of  the  Romans,  aggravated  by  weighty 
causes  through  a  long  series  of  years,  that  caused  the 
famous  decree,  Carthago  deknda  est ;  else  Cato  might 


THE   POWER   OF  TRIFLES.  105 

have  dumped  down  a  wagon-load  of  figs  on  the  floor 
of  the  Senate-House,  and  the  Senators  would  not  have 
cared  a  fig  for  it.  Again :  Livy  intimates  that  the  ad 
mission  of  plebeians  to  the  Consulate  was  owing  to  the 
accident  of  the  Consul's  lictor  knocking  at  the  door  of 
his  house  to  announce  his  return,  whilst  his  wife's  sis 
ter,  who  was  married  to  a  plebeian,  was  present.  She 
was  indignant  that  her  own  husband  could  not  acquire 
such  a  distinction,  and  hence  arose  the  contest  which 
ended  in  breaking  down  the  exclusion.  But  here  the 
traio  had  been  laid  twenty  years  before  by  Cameleius, 
and  this  was  but  the  spark  that  lighted  it.  So  the 
Reformation  would  have  come,  had  there  been  no  sale 
of  indulgences,  for  there  had  been  twenty  incipient 
Reformations  before  Luther;  and  without  the  stamp 
act  and  the  threepenny  tax  on  tea,  the  young  Ameri 
can  giant  would  still  have  ceased  to  bow  to  the  British 
sceptre. 

Victor  Hugo  absurdly  says  that  "a  few  drops  of 
water,  more  or  less,  prostrated  Napoleon;"  that  is,  the 
battle  of  Waterloo  was  postponed  five  hours  by  the 
rain  of  the  previous  night,  enabling  Blucher  to  arrive 
in  time  to  save  Wellington  from  annihilation.  But 
the  truth  is,  as  we  have  already  shown  in  another  part 
of  this  volume,  the  "  few  drops,"  which  were  really  tor 
rents,  impeded  the  Prussians  as  much  as  the  French, 
and  Napoleon's  defeat  was  due  simply  to  his  own  un 
accountable  delays  and  blunders  before  and  during  the 
battle.  The  arrival  of  Blucher  only  converted  what 
was  already  a  defeat  into  a  total  rout. 

"  But  did  not  Joan  of  Arc,"  asks  an  objector,  "  expel 
the  British  from  France,  —  a  poor,  weak  maiden  tri 
umphing  over  foes  that  had  baffled  the  ablest  French 
generals?"  We  answer  that  substantially  the  same 


106  THE   POWER  OF  TRIFLES. 

results  would  have  occurred  had  no  Joan  of  Arc 
appeared.  The  fact  was  that  the  English  had  under 
taken  a  gigantic  task,  utterly  disproportionate  to  their 
means.  By  great  military  prowess,  aided  by  the  defec 
tion  of  some  of  the  French  nobles,  they  had  struck  a 
paralytic  terror  into  their  foes.  But  this  could  not 
long  continue.  The  scale  was  already  turning  when 
the  enthusiast  of  Lorraine  entered  the  field.  She 
sprang  from  among  the  people;  it  was  by  the  senti 
ments,  the  religious  belief,  the  passions  of  the  people, 
that  she  was  inspired  and  supported ;  and  the  one  per 
vading  sentiment  of  all  hearts  was  a  burning  desire 
to  expel  the  foreign  invader.  One  might  as  well  say 
that  the  match  which  fires  a  cannon  blows  up  a 
fortification,  or  that  a  spark  falling  upon  a  mass  of 
combustibles  is  the  cause  of  a  conflagration,  without 
reference  to  the  gunpowder  in  the  one  case  or  to  the 
combustibles  in  the  other,  as  affirm  that  men's  des 
tinies  are  shaped  by  chance,  or  that  human  civiliza 
tion  has  been  developed,  thwarted,  or  controlled  by 
petty  and  insufficient  causes,  —  the  accidents  and  in 
cidental  circumstances  which  dramatic  and  sensational 
writers  are  fond  of  assigning. 


PEEP  INTO  LITERARY  WORKSHOPS. 


HOW  shall  we  write?  Shall  we,  who  earn  our  liv 
ing  with  the  pen,  jot  down  our  first  thoughts  in 
the  first  order  that  occurs  to  us,  or  shall  we,  before 
wreaking  them  upon  expression,  brood  over  them  like 
a  hen  over  her  eggs,  and,  when  we  have  put  them 
on  paper,  blot,  prune,  touch,  and  retouch  our  sen 
tences,  with  the  utmost  care?  That  literature,  though 
it  requires  peculiar  talents  for  its  successful  prosecution, 
is  also  to  be  regarded  as  an  art  which  exacts  a  certain 
degree  of  acquired  skill,  will  be  admitted  by  all.  Unlike 
the  other  arts,  however,  it  has  no  apprenticeships,  no 
recognized  schools  of  instruction,  no  grades  of  teachers 
or  scholars,  but  is  learned  and  practised  by  every  man 
in  his  own  way,  with  no  hints  or  helps  but  such  as  his 
own  brain  or  chance  observations  may  afford  him;  and 
hence  a  peep  into  the  workshops  of  those  whom  the 
world  has  honored  as  masters  of  the  art, —  a  glance  at 
their  methods  of  producing  their  magical  effects, —  may 
be  both  pleasant  and  profitable. 

There  are  some  literary  advisers,  of  high  repute,  who 
denounce  all  blots,  erasures,  and  alterations.  "Write  as 
you  talk,"  says  John  Neal.  Unfortunately  his  success 
does  not  commend  his  counsel.  No  writer  has  shown 
more  conclusively  by  his  failures  that  a  merciless  prun 
ing  of  the  vine  is  necessary  to  its  fruitfulness.  Neal 
has  abundant  talents,  even  genius;  but  Washington 


108  A   PEEP   INTO   LITERARY    WORKSHOPS. 

/ 

Irving  would  make  more  of  a  Scotch  pebble  by  its 
brilliant  setting,  than  Neal,  by  his  method,  of  the  crown 
jewel  of  the  Emperor  of  all  the  Russias.  "Never 
think  of  mending  what  you  write,"  says  Cobbett;  "let 
it  go ;  no  patching."  "  Endeavor,"  says  Niebuhr,  "  never 
to  strike  out  anything  of  what  you  have  once  written 
down.  Punish  yourself  by  allowing,  once  or  twice, 
something  to  pass,  though  you  see  you  might  give  it 
better."  "Write,  write,  by  all  means,"  says  another. 
"Take,  if  you  will,  the  first  subject  that  comes  to  your 
hand ;  but  be  sure  to  treat  it  in  the  first  mode  that 
comes  into  your  head.  By  pursuing  this  process  you 
will  soonest  arrive  at  the  art  of  thinking  with  your 
own  thoughts.  Celerity  best  disperses  the  valor  of  the 
brain,  and  rallies  ideas  into  shape  and  service.  *  * 
As  to  the  modes  of  explaining  your  subject,  lay  aside 
your  pen,  drop  the  design  of  authorship  altogether,  go 
back  to  your  ordinary  walking  and  talking,  and  endea 
vour  to  content  yourself  therewith,  if  you  feel  within, 
you  the  stirrings  of  a  moment's  hesitation  on  this  head. 
'Second  thoughts  are  best,'  is  a  beggarly  adage,  the 
invention  of  the  timid,  the  refuge  of  the  weak,  the 
parent  of  universal  scepticism.  How  can  that  claim 
to  be  the  birth  of  your  mind,  which  is  the  production 
of  deliberate  selection,  and  of  which  you  may  never  deter 
mine  whether  it  shall  be  born  at  all  ?  And  what  right 
have  you  to  offer  to  the  world  wisdom  which  has  need 
to  be  criticised  and  sifted  beforehand?  Ganganelli  says 
truly  that  a  man  might  often  find  at  the  -nib  of  his  pen 
what  he  goes  a  great  way  in  search  of, —  and  I  main 
tain  that  no  man  who  writes  from  pure  love  of  writ 
ing,  should  be  allowed  to  hold  a  pen,  if  he  require  to 
travel  for  its  illustrations  much  beyond  its  nib.  I 
should  like  to  know  where  originality  is  to  be  found, 


A    PEEP  INTO   LITERARY   WORKSHOPS.  109 

if  it  be  not  in  a  man's  first  thoughts,  or  truth,  save  in 
the  spontaneous  testimony  of  his  faculties  for  dis 
cerning  it?" 

There  is  force  in  these  suggestions;  no  doubt 
there  are  persons  with  intellectual  idiosyncrasies,  for 
whom  this  is  the  best  advice  that  could  be  given. 
Some  writers  cannot  correct.  They  exhaust  their 
ardor  in  the  first  creative  act,  and  every  addition  is 
a  weakness.  There  are  others,  again,  who  by  long 
practice  acquire  at  last  a  facility  by  which  they  can 
dash  off  sentences  and  chapters  with  marvellous  ease 
and  rapidity.  Sir  Walter  Scott  was  a  writer  of  this 
class.  Indefatigable  in  gathering  the  materials  of  a 
novel,  spending  whole  days  m  verifying  a  point  of  his 
tory,  or  in  working  up  the  details  of  a  bit  of  scenery, 
he  troubled  himself  little  about  the  plot  of  his  novels, 
and  less  about  his  style.  He  never  knew  what  it  is 
to  bite  the  nails  for  a  thought  or  an  expression,  nor 
did  he  ever  waste  a  moment  with  the  file.  He  wrote 
in  a  whirlwind  of  inspiration,  and  was  so  hurried 
along  that  his  brain  resembled  a  high-pressure  engine, 
the  steam  of  which  is  perpetually  up,  every  time  he 
entered  his  study  and  lifted  a  pen.  Gifted  with  a  pro 
digious  memory,  —  a  memory  that  held  everything  with 
a  vice-like  grasp, —  a  vivid  imagination,  a  fluent  pen, 
and  a  spirit  that  courted  difficulties  instead  of  quailing 
before  them,  he  needed  only  an  incident  or  a  tradition 
to  start  with  in  any  of  his  novels;  and  when  he  had 
laid  down  "the  keel  of  a  story,"  it  grew  under  his 
hands  like  a  ship  under  the  hands  of  a  thousand  car 
penters.  The  second  and  third  volumes  of  Waverley 
he  dashed  off  in  three  weeks,  and  a  half-dozen  weeks 
sufficed  to  produce  the  whole  of  Guy  Mannering.  "I 
have  often  been  amused,"  he  says,  "  with  the  critics 


110  A   PEEP   INTO   LITERARY   WORKSHOPS. 

distinguishing  some  passages  as  particularly  labored, 
when  the  pen  passed  over  the  whole  as  fast  as  it  could 
move,  and  the  eye  never  again  saw  them  except  in 
proof."  A  wondrous  talent  this;  yet  it  must  be  ad 
mitted  that  Scott  was  an  incorrect  writer.  Scotticisms 
and  awkward  peculiarities  of  phrase  abound  in  his 
writings,  and  his  poetry  is  often  as  slovenly  as  his 
prose.  He  wrote  with  a  wonderful  concentration  of 
mind;  but  this  taxed  his  brain  fearfully,  and  at  last 
destroyed  it 

Byron  wrote  with  equal  rapidity.  He  had  a  vol 
canic  brain,  and  threw  off  "The  Corsair"  in  ten  days, 
and  "  The  Bride  of  Abydos "  in  four.  While  his  poems 
were  printing,  he  added  to  and  corrected  them,  but 
never  recast  them.  "I  told  you  before,"  he  writes, 
"that  I  can  never  recast  anything.  I  am  like  the 
tiger.  If  I  miss  the  first  spring,  I  go  grumbling  back 
to  my  jungle  again;  but  if  I  do  it,  it  is  crushing."  It 
was  his  custom  to  write  out  his  first  ideas  as  they  came, 
and  continue  until  the  afflatus  was  over,  when,  finding 
his  blood  cooling  in  reaction,  he  would  set  himself  criti 
cally  to  work,  and  retrench,  and  pare,  and  modify  as 
liberally  as  he  had  written.  When  writing  his  Don 
Juan  in  Italy,  he  used  to  sit  up  far  into  the  night, 
with  his  brandy  and  water,  —  his  later  substitute  for 
the  glorious  Hippocrene  of  his  first  efforts,  —  and  write 
away  till  the  cock-shout  of  light  summoned  him  to 
bed.  The  next  day  was  usually  spent  in  cutting  down 
the  production  of  the  night  to  one  half  the  number  of 
stanzas,  polishing,  and  otherwise  improving  the  work. 
Byron's  writing,  though  swift,  was  not  easy;  it  was 
hard  and  harassing,  and,  aided  by  brandy,  it  bowed 
him,  "gray  and  ghastly,"  into  the  grave  at  the  early 
age  of  thirty-seven.  Sydney  Smith  was  another  rapid 


A   PEEP   INTO   LITERAKY   WORKSHOPS.  Ill 

writer.  Writing  as  he  talked,  with  the  dash  of  a  man 
of  keen  wit  and  high  intelligence,  he  never  stopped  to 
round  off  or  polish  his  periods,  —  never  altered  or  cor 
rected.  Indeed,  he  was  so  impatient  of  this,  that  he 
could  hardly  bear  the  trouble  even  of  looking  over 
what  he  had  written;  but  would  frequently  throw 
down  the  manuscript  on  the  table  as  soon  as  finished, 
and  say,  starting  up  and  addressing  his  wife :  "  There, 
it  is  done ;  now,  Kate,  do  look  it  over,  and  put  in  the 
dots  to  the  i's  and  strokes  to  the  t's."  It  is  said  that 
Fenelon  wrote  his  Telemaque  in  three  months,  and 
there  were  not  ten  erasures  in  the  original  manuscript. 
Godwin  dashed  off  a  large  part  of  a  novel  in  a  single 
night.  Gibbon,  who  was  so  long  in  hitting  the  key 
note  in  the  first  chapters  of  his  immortal  history,  sent 
the  last  three  quarto  volumes  uncopied  to  the  press; 
and  the  same  copious  readiness  attended  Adam  Smith, 
who  dictated  to  his  amanuensis  while  he  walked  about 
his  study. 

Dr.  Johnson,  in  counselling  young  writers,  advises 
them  to  train  their  minds  to  start  promptly,  for  it  is 
easier  to  improve  in  accuracy  than  in  speed.  Robert 
Hall  used  to  lament  that  he  wrote  so  slowly  and 
laboriously, — found  it  so  hard  to  realize  his  ideal, — 
that  he  could  write  but  little,  while  that  had  a  stiffness 
from  which  his  spoken  style  was  free.  Whatever  the 
advantages  of  deliberate  composition,  no  man  of  sense 
will  pretend  that  the  Horatian  rule,  nonum  prematur 
in  annum,  is  of  universal  application.  Thackeray  has 
shrewdly  suggested  that  a  man  who  thinks  of  putting 
away  a  composition  for  ten  years  before  giving  it  to 
the  world,  or  exercising  his  own  mature  judgment 
upon  it,  should  first  be  sure  of  the  original  strength 
and  duration  of  the  work;  otherwise,  on  withdrawing 


112  A   PEEP  INTO   LITERARY   WORKSHOPS. 

it  from  the  crypt,  he  may  find  that,  like  some  small 
wine,  it  has  lost  what  flavor  it  once  had,  and,  when 
opened,  is  only  tasteless.  Again,  it  must  be  admitted 
that  even  to  be  unpleasantly  hurried  is  not  always  and 
purrly  an  evil  in  writing  for  the  press.  All  rules  for 
writing  must  have  respect  to  personal  idiosyncrasies. 
While  many  men  are  paralyzed  by  hurry,  there  are 
some  who  work  best  under  the  sense  of  pressure. 
Hundreds  of  persons  can  testify  that  hurry  and  severe 
compression  from  an  instant  summons  that  brooks  no 
delay,  have  a  tendency  to  furnish  the  flint  and  steel 
for  eliciting  sudden  scintillations  of  originality, — origi 
nality  displayed  at  one  time  in  the  picturesque  felicity 
of  the  phrase,  at  another  in  the  thought  or  its  illus 
trations.  Who  does  not  know  that  to  improvise  is, 
sometimes,  in  effect,  to  be  forced  into  a  consciousness 
of  creative  energies  that  would  else  have  slumbered 
through  life?  Such  was  the  case  with  the  "Wizard  of 
the  North,"  Sir  Walter  Scott.  "I  cannot  pull  well  in 
long  traces,"  he  used  to  say,  "when  the  draught  is  far 
behind  me.  I  love  to  hear  the  press  thumping,  clatter 
ing,  and  banging  in  my  ear;  it  creates  the  necessity 
which  almost  always  makes  me  work  best."  The 
moment  he  was  ahead  of  the  press,  and  the  cry  of  the 
printer's  devil  ceased  to  sound  in  his  ear,  his  spirits 
drooped,  his  pen  flagged,  and  the  story  came  to  a  halt. 
De  Quincey  remarks  that  the  same  stimulation  to 
the  creative  faculty  occurs  even  more  notoriously  in 
musical  improvisations;  and  all  great  executants  on  the 
organ  have  had  reason  to  bemoan  their  inability  to  arrest 
those  sudden  felicities  of  impassioned  combinations,  and 
those  flying  arabesques  of  loveliest  melody,  which  the 
magnetic  inspiration  of  the  moment  has  availed  to 
suggest 


A    PEEP   INTO    LITERARY   WORKSHOPS.  113 

Rossini  positively  advised  a  young  composer  never 
to  write  his  overture  until  the  evening  before  the  first 
performance.  "Nothing,"  he  declared,  "excites  inspira 
tion  like  necessity;  the  presence  of  a  copyist  waiting 
for  your  work,  and  the  view  of  a  manager  in  despair 
tearing  out  his  hair  by  handfuls.  In  Italy  in  my  time 
all  the  managers  were  bald  at  thirty.  I  composed  the 
overture  to  Othello  in  a  small  room  in  the  Barbaja 
Palace,  where  the  baldest  and  most  ferocious  of  man 
agers  had  shut  me  up  by  force,  with  nothing  but  a 
dish  of  maccaroni,  and  the  threat  that  I  should  not 
leave  the  place  alive  until  I  had  written  the  last  note. 
I  wrote  the  overture  to  the  'Gazza  Ladra'  on  the  day 
of  the  first  performance,  in  the  upper  loft  of  the  La 
Scala,  where  I  had  been  confined  by  the  manager, 
under  the  guard  of  four  scene-shifters,  who  had  orders 
to  throw  my  text  out  of  the  windows  bit  by  bit  to 
copyists,  who  were  waiting  below  to  transcribe  it.  In 
default  of  music,  I  was  to  be  thrown  out  myself." 
Handel  composed  with  equal  rapidity.  His  pen  could 
not  keep  pace  with  the  current  of  ideas  that  flowed 
through  his  volcanic  brain.  Haydn,  Mendelssohn,  and 
Beethoven,  on  the. other  hand,  composed  slowly,  retouch 
ing  and  elaborating  with  the  same  patient  love  with 
which  the  sculptor  puts  the  finishing  stroke  to  the 
creation  of  his  brain  and  his  chisel.  Ries,  the  bio 
grapher  of  Beethoven,  says  that  when  he  was  in  Lon 
don,  negotiating  the  sale  of  some  of  that  composer's 
later  compositions,  he  was  not  a  little  surprised  to 
receive  a  letter  from  Vienna,  in  which  Beethoven  begged 
him  to  add  two  notes  (A  C)  to  the  beginning  of  the 
Adagio  of  the  grand  sonata  in  B  flat,  Op.  106.  Ries 
was  astonished  that  an  alteration  should  be  required  in 
a  composition  finished  nine  months  previously;  but  his 


114  A   PEEP   INTO   LITERARY   WORKSHOPS. 

astonishment  gave  place  to  admiration  when  he  saw 
the  wonderful  effect  of  these  introductory  notes,  which 
De  Lenz  calls  "two  steps  leading  down  to  the  gate  of 
the  tomb." 

But,  while  some  writers  dash  off  their  best  things 
at  a  heat,  and  others,  like  Campbell,  the  poet,  dawdle 
too  much  over  their  compositions,  and  only  weaken 
them  by  the  excessive  use  of  the  file,  for  most  men  the 
rule  is  absolute,  that  great  labor  is  the  price  of  excel 
lence.  The  promptness  of  conception  and  quick  master- 
touch  of  the  fine  writer  are  acquired  only  after  years 
of  toil;  it  is  the  experience  of  the  veteran,  accomplish 
ing  with  ease  what  seemed  impossible  to  the  raw  recruit. 
By  years  of  incessant  practice  and  painstaking,  the  deli 
cate  instruments  of  the  mind  become  at  last  so  lubri 
cated,  and  so  fitted  to  their  work,  that,  when  the  steam 
is  up,  it  performs  its  task  with  the  promptness  and  pre 
cision  of  a  machine.  As  Pope  says: 

True  ease  in  writing  cornea  from  art,  not  chance, 
As  they  move  easiest  who  have  learned  to  dance. 

The  author  of  these  lines  was  himself  one  of  the 
most  painstaking  of  poets.  He  tells  us  that  in  his 
boyhood  he  "lisped  in  numbers,  for  the  numbers  came;" 
but  if  they  came  unsought  it  was  a  felicity  which  for 
sook  him  when  his  genius  had  reached  its  full  stature. 
Though  he  was  not  a  very  prolific  author,  yet  Swift 
complained  of  him  that  he  never  was  at  leisure  for 
conversation,  because  he  "had  always  some  poetical 
scheme  in  his  head."  Economizing  everything  that 
could  serve  his  purpose,  he  used  to  jot  down  in  the 
night,  as  he  lay  in  bed,  any  striking  thought  or  lucky 
••xpression  which  flitted  through  his  brain,  lest  it  should 
!><•  forgotten  lx?fore  morning.  Every  line,  or  fragment 


A    PEEP  INTO   LITERARY   WORKSHOPS.  115 

of  a  line,  which  could  be  turned  to  account  at  a  future 
period,  he  carefully  recorded,  not  allowing  a  crumb  to 
fall  to  the  ground.  What  he  composed  with  care,  he 
corrected  with  a  never-tiring  patience ;  and  it  was  not 
till  after  innumerable  blots  and  erasures,  and  -till  he 
had  kept  a  poem  in  his  portfolio  for  many  years,  that 
he  gave  it  to  the  printer. 

Shenstone  has  finely  said  that  fine  writing  is  the 
result  of  spontaneous  thoughts  and  laborious  composi 
tion.  If  we  look  at  the  first  draughts  of  the  great  works 
that  have  immortalized  their  authors,  we  shall  find  that 
they  are  often  comparatively  slight  and  imperfect,  like 
the  rude  chalking  for  a  masterly  picture.  Virgil  toiled 
so  long  over  his  productions  that  he  compared  himself 
to  a  she-bear  licking  her  misshapen  offspring  into 
shape.  He  spent  eleven  years  in  composing  the  ^neid, 
and  set  apart  three  more  for  its  revisal;  but,  being  pre 
vented  by  sickness  from  giving  it  the  finishing  touches 
which  his  exquisite  judgment  deemed  necessary,  he  was 
so  dissatisfied  with  the  poem  that  he  ordered  it  to  be 
burned.  Sterne  was  incessantly  employed  for  six  months 
in  perfecting  one  diminutive  volume.  Ten  long  years 
elapsed  between  the  first  sketch  of  Goldsmith's  Traveller 
and  its  final  completion.  Twenty  lines  in  a  day  he 
thought  a  brilliant  feat,  and  Bishop  Percy  tells  us  that 
not  a  line  in  all  his  poems  stands  as  he  first  wrote  it. 
Young,  ridiculing  hasty  composition,  counsels  authors 
to  "write  and  re-write,  blot  out,  and  write  again," 
adding: 

Time  only  can  mature  the  laboring  brain, 
Time  is  the  father,  and  the  midwife  pain : 
The  same  good  sense  that  makes  a  man  excel, 
Still  makes  him  doubt  he  e'er  has  written  well. 
Downright  impossibilities  they  seek : 
What  man  can  be  immortal  in  a  week? 


116  A    PEEP   INTO   LITERARY    WORKSHOPS. 

Cowper,  a  vigorous,  but  most  painstaking  poet, 
declares  that  "to  touch  atid  retouch  is  the  secret  of 
almost  all  good  writing,  especially  in  verse."  Burns 
was  another  hard  worker  with  the  brain.  Easily  as  his 
verse  seems  to  have  dropped  from  his  pen,  it  was  really 
the  product  of  much  toil.  He  was  fastidious  to  a  fault 
in  perfecting  his  phrase  and  rhythm.  "  Easy  composition, 
but  laborious  correction,"  is  his  own  characterization 
of  his  mode  of  writing.  Even  the  poet  Moore,  whose 
verse  is  so  singularly  mellifluous,  liquid,  and  facile,  has 
remarked  that  "labor  is  the  parent  of  all  the  lasting 
wonders  of  the  world,  whether  in  verse  or  stone, 
whether  poetry  or  pyramids."  He  tells  us  that  he  him 
self  was,  at  all  times,  a  far  slower  and  more  painstaking 
workman  than  would  ever  be  guessed  from  the  result. 
The  first  shadowy  imagining  of  a  new  poem  was, 
indeed,  a  delicious  fool's  paradise;  but  the  labor  of 
composition  was  something  wholly  different.  To  gather 
the  illustrations  for  "  Lalla  Rookh "  required  months  of 
laborious  reading;  much  farther  time  was  needed  to 
familiarize  himself  with  them;  and  again  and  again, 
while  writing  the  poem,  he  found  the  task  so  difficult 
that  he  was  on  the  point  of  abandoning  it  in  despair. 
Of  Shelley,  Medwin,  his  biographer,  tells  us  that  he 
practised  the  severest  self-criticism,  and  that  his  manu 
scripts,  like  those  of  Tasso  at  Ferrara,  were  so  full  of 
blots  and  interlineations  as  to  be  scarcely  decipherable. 
Campbell  was  so  scrupulously  fastidious  as  to  nicety  of 
expression,  that,  in  ridicule  of  the  rareness  and  diffi 
culty  of  his  literary  parturition,  especially  when  the 
offspring  of  his  throes  was  poetical,  one  of  his  waggish 
friends  used  gravely  to  assert  that,  on  passing  his  resi 
dence  when  he  was  writing  Tlieodoric,  he  observed  that 
the  knocker  was  tied  up,  and  the  street  in  front  of  the 


A   PEEP  INTO   LITERARY   WORKSHOPS.  117 

house  covered  with  straw.  Alarmed  at  these  appear 
ances,  he  gently  rang  the  bell,  and  inquired  anxiously 
after  the  poet's  health.  "Thank  you,  sir/'  was  the 
servant's  reply,  "master  is  doing  as  well  as  can  be 
expected."  "  Good  heavens !  as  well  as  can  be  expected ! 
What  has  happened  to  him?"  "Why,  sir,  he  was  this 
morning  delivered  of  a  couplet!" 

Burke's  gorgeous  imagery  had  little  of  that  rush 
which  is  commonly  heard  in  it.  He  had  all  his  prin 
cipal  works  printed  once  or  twice  at  a  private  press, 
before  handing  them  to  his  publisher.  Sheridan  not 
only  watched  long  and  anxiously  for  a  fine  idea,  but 
turned  it  over  and  over  on  tho  literary  anvil,  and 
rewarded  himself  for  the  toil  by  a  glazz  of  generous 
port.  Gray  wrote  slowly  and  fastidiously;  so  did  Pope 
and  Akenside.  Addison  wore  out  the  patience  of  his 
printer;  frequently,  when  nearly  a  whole  impression  of 
the  Spectator  was  worked  off,  he  would  stop  the  press 
to  insert  a  new  preposition.  Charles  Lamb's  most 
sportive  essays  were  the  result  of  intense  brain  labor; 
he  used  to  spend  a  week  at  times  in  elaborating  a 
single  humorous  letter  to  a  friend.  It  is  curious,  con 
sidering  the  mercurial  character  of  the  French,  with 
what  wearisome  care  and  slowness  many  of  their  authors 
have  written.  Malherbe,  the  father  of  French  poetry,- 
composed  with  prodigious  care  and  tardiness,  and  racked 
his  brain  unceasingly  to  correct  what  he  had  produced. 
Moliere  passed  whole  days  in  fixing  upon  a  proper 
epithet  for  rhyme.  Pascal  spent  not  less  than  twenty 
days  in  writing  and  revising  one  of  his  immortal  let 
ters,  justifying  the  observation  of  M.  Faugiere,  that, 
with  that  great  writer,  revision  was  "  a  second  creation." 
The  Benedictine  editor  of  Bossuet's  works,  declared  that 
they  were  obscured  by  so  many  interlineations  as  to 


118  A  PEEP  INTO  LITERARY   WORKSHOPS. 

be  nearly  illegible.  Rousseau's  works,  which  so  charm  us 
by  their  simplicity  and  ease,  were  written  with  almost 
incredible  pains.  He  sat  in  full  dress  always,  like 
Handel  at  the  organ,  and  wrote  on  the  finest  gilt-edged 
paper,  with  extreme  fastidiousness  and  care.  On  the 
other  hand,  Dr.  Johnson's  Rambler  papers,  the  style  of 
which  is  so  elephantine,  cumbrous,  and  labored,  were 
thrown  off  with  the  utmost  rapidity,  and  sent  in  hot 
haste  to  the  press.  Buffon  was  another  spruce  and  trim 
author,  who,  from  title-page  to  colophon,  wrote  in  bag- 
wig  and  ruffles,  and  has  left  the  well-known  saying 
that  "genius  is  patience."  So  slowly  did  he  shape  and 
polish  his  sentences, —  so  often  did  he  turn  a  paragraph 
in  his  mind  and  on  his  tongue,  speaking  it  over  and 
over,  until  his  ear  was  satisfied, —  that  he  was  able  to 
repeat  whole  pages  of  his  works. 

Of  the  late  French  critic,  Sainte-Beuve,  it  is  said 
that  he  never  wrote  even  an  article  for  a  newspaper, 
without  having  subjected  his  mind  to  a  special  training 
for  that  particular  article.  The  preparations  for  one  of 
his  Causeries  du  Lundi  cost  him  days  of  severe  labor; 
and,  before  beginning  the  composition,  his  mind  had 
been  disciplined  into  a  state  of  the  most  complete 
readiness,  like  the  fingers  of  a  musician,  who  has  been 
practising  a  piece  before  he  executes  it.  Even  Beranger's 
light,  chirping  verse,  which  seems  as  spontaneous  as  the 
twittering  of  a  sparrow,  was  the  result  of  intense  labor, 
the  author  bestowing  weeks  and  months  upon  a  single 
song,  to  give  it  that  appearance  of  ease  and  simplicity 
which  aided  so  much  in  witching  the  reader.  Vaugelas 
touched  and  retouched  his  productions  so  many  times, 
that  Voiture  declared  that,  while  he  was  polishing  one 
part,  the  French  language  was  undergoing  change 
enough  to  necessitate  his  rewriting  all  the  rest.  La 


A   PEEP   INTO   LITERARY   WORKSHOPS.  119 

Rochefoucauld  spent  fifteen  years  in  preparing  a  little 
book  of  two  hundred  pages. 

Canning  changed,  amended  and  polished  his  speeches 
till  he  nearly  polished  away  the  original  spirit.  He 
altered  the  proofs  so  much  that  the  printers  found  it 
easier  to  recompose  the  matter  anew  than  to  correct  it. 
Macaulay  wrote  his  brilliant  Essays  and  his  History 
with  the  greatest  care  and  nicety.  The  first  rough  draft 
was  absolutely  illegible  from  erasures  and  corrections. 
"  You  have  no  conception,"  says  Prescott,  who  saw  two  or 
three  pages  of  the  MSS.  of  his  History,  "of  the  amount 
of  labor  that  one  of  these  sheets  of  foolscap  represents." 

On  the  whole,  the  result  of  our  peep  into  the  work 
shops  of  literary  men  is  not  to  prepossess  us  in  favor 
of  rapid  writing.  It  was  wisely  said  by  the  Bishop  of 
Exeter,  England,  in  a  recent  address  to  a  body  of  stu 
dents,  that  "of  all  work  that  produces  results,  nine- 
tenths  must  be  drudgery."  The  remark  is  as  true  of 
literary  composition  as  of  any  other  product.  The  best 
writers  do  not  time  themselves  like  racehorses,  and  the 
boast  of  facility  which  we  sometimes  hear  from  young 
writers,  instead  of  being  creditable,  only  shows  "a  pitiful 
ambition  in  the  fool  who  makes  it."  The  veins  of 
golden  thought  do  not  lie  upon  the  surface  of  the 
mind;  time  and  patience  are  required  to  work  the 
shafts,  and  bring  out  the  glittering  ore.  The  composi 
tions  whose  subtle  grace  has  a  perennial  charm, —  which 
we  sip,  like  old  wine,  sentence  by  sentence,  and  phrase 
by  phrase,  till  their  delicate  aroma  and  exquisite  flavor 
diffuse  themselves  through  every  cell  of  the  brain, —  are 
wrought  out,  not  under  "high  pressure,"  but  quietly, 
slowly,  leisurely,  in  the  dreamy  and  caressing  atmo 
sphere  of  fancy.  They  are  the  mellow  vintage  of  a  ripe 
and  unforced  imagination.  "Le  temps  n'epargne  pas  ce 


120  A   PEEP  INTO   LITERARY    WORKSHOPS. 

qu'on  fait  sans  lui, —  Time  spares  nothing  produced 
without  his  aid,"  says  Boileau.  It  is  a  literary  as  well 
as  a  physiological  law,  that  longevity  demands  a  long 
period  of  gestation.  An  elephant  is  not  prolific,  but  its 
offspring  outlives  whole  generations  of  the  inferior  ani 
mals  whose  gestation  is  of  more  frequent  occurrence. 
Half  the  failures  that  occur  in  literature  are  due,  as 
they  are  due  in  art,  in  business,  in  every  kind  of  pur 
suit,  to  self-conceit  in  the  aspirant,  leading  him  to  de 
spise  labor,  and  to  fancy  that  his  slightest  effort  is 
sufficient  to  win  success.  It  is  an  age  of  improvisation 
that  we  live  in, — of  impromptu  reform,  impromptu 
legislation,  impromptu  invention,  literature,  philosophy. 
The  volubility  and  vehemence  of  extempore  eloquence 
in  the  pulpit,  the  cut-and-thrust  style  of  criticism  in 
magazines  and  reviews,  the  labor-saving,  hothouse 
schemes  of  education,  so  much  in  vogue,  indicate,  by 
their  popularity,  the  spirit  of  the  age.  All  is  steam, 
electricity,  railroad  rush.  "Who  shall  deliver  me  from 
the  Greeks  and  Komans?"  cried  in  agony  the  classic- 
ridden  Frenchman.  "Who  will  deliver  us  from  these 
annihilators  of  time  and  space  ?"  cry  we. 


FRENCH  TRAITS. 


OF  all  the  civilized  peoples  on  the  globe  there  is  no 
one  whose  character  is  so  full  of  seeming,  if  not 
real,  paradoxes,  as  that  of  the  French.  Always  better 
or  worse  than  they  are  expected  to  be, — one  day  sink 
ing  far  below  the  level  of  humanity,  at  another  soaring 
far  above  it, — now  electrifying  the  world  by  their  brill 
iant  thoughts  or  deeds,  and  anon  provoking  its  indig 
nation  or  scorn  by  their  servility,  egotism,  or  mean 
ness, —  the  French  are  so  unchangeable  that  their  dis 
tinctive  features  may  be  recognized  in  portraits  drawn 
by  Caesar  and  others  nearly  two  thousand  years  ago, 
and  yet  so  fickle  that  one  not  familiar  with  their 
whole  career  is  often  half  inclined  to  doubt  their  iden 
tity.  Coleridge  says  of  them,  with  the  usual  English 
narrowness,  that  they  are  like  gunpowder;  each  indi 
vidual  is  smutty  and  contemptible ;  but  mass  them 
together,  and  they  are  terrible.  Intellectually  they  are 
equally  solid  and  brilliant;  do  everything  thoroughly, 
yet  display  the  most  exquisite  taste  in  trifles.  We  are 
wont  to  speak  of  them  as  superficial;  yet  where  do 
you  find  profounder  scholars  than  in  France,  or  work 
men  who  better  understand  the  rules  and  principles  of 
their  art?  Looking  on  this  lively  and  chattering  peo 
ple,  one  is  about  ready  to  conclude  that  your  profound 
bigwigs  are  mostly  shallow  dogs,  —  that  it  is  only  your 
gay  and  frivolous  fellows  that  are  deep!  No  people 


122  FRENCH   TRAITS. 

have  quicker  or  keener  perceptions;  none  probe  more 
thoroughly  to  the  core  everything  which  they  investi 
gate.  They  are  equally  skilled  in  cards  and  chess,  and 
in  marshaling  battallions  on  the  field;  they  are  alike 
at  home  in  calculating  the  revolutions  of  planets  in 
their  orbits,  and  in  cutting  pigeon-wings  in  a  ball 
room.  They  have  their  Laplaces  and  their  Lubins; 
they  are  alike  unrivaled  in  fillagree  and  in  mathe 
matics.  Their  profoundest  thoughts  are  bon-mots; 
their  jests  veil  deep  philosophical  theories. 

It  is  Paris  that  is  foremost  in  learned  monkeys  and 
in  learned  scientists;  Paris  that  furnishes  us  with  our 
latest  theories  of  philosophy;  Paris  that  furnishes  us 
with  our  latest  styles  of  fancy  goods,  our  latest  fashions 
in  dress.  Our  coxcombs  ape  the  Parisian  manners; 
our  novelists  steal  the  French  writers'  plots;  our  Gen 
erals  borrow  from  Turenne  and  Napoleon  their  art  of 
war.  Sydney  Smith  once  said  of  Lord  John  Russell, 
that  he  was  ready  at  a  moment's  notice  to  go  up  in  a 
balloon,  to  perform  an  operation  for  cataract,  or  to 
take  command  of  the  channel  fleet.  But  a  French 
man's  genius  is  far  more  versatile;  he  can  in  the  same 
day  discover  a  new  planet,  draw  a  caricature  that  will 
convulse  the  public  with  merriment,  invent  a  new 
soup  that  will  make  an  epicure  scream  with  ioy, 
solve  an  enigma  that  would  have  puzzled  the  Sphinx, 
and  carry  a  Malakoff  by  a  coup  de  main.  There  is 
but  one  thing  which  a  Frenchman  cannot  learn  to 
do  well,  and  that  is,  —  to  govern  and  to  be  governed. 
Byron  hardly  slandered  them  when  he  pronounced 
them 

a  people  who  will  not  be  ruled, 
And  love  much  rather  to  be  scourged  than  schooled. 

France  was  rightly  characterized  by  De  Maistre,  in  1796, 


FRENCH   TRAITS.  123 

as  a  republic  without  republicans, — a  nation  too  noble 
to  be  enslaved,  and  too  impetuous  to  be  free.  Indeed, 
they  are  the  only  people  that  ever  existed,  among  whom 
a  government  can  be  hissed  off  the  stage  like  a  bad 
play,  and  its  fall  excite  less  consternation  than  the 
violation  of  a  fashion  in  dress. 

In  what  other  people  can  be  found  such  a  union  of 
genius  and  childhood;  such  a  fondness  for  routine,  yet 
such  a  proneness,  when  forced  to  abandon  old  customs 
and  principles,  to  push  the  new  to  their  farthest  limit; 
so  profound  a  love  of  freedom  in  theory,  and  yet  such 
a  willingness  to  recognize  a  vast  standing  army  as  the 
only  basis  of  civil  government;  so  exquisite  a  taste  in 
the  ornamental,  and  so  savage  an  ignorance  of  the 
comfortable;  so  much  outward  refinement  with  so 
much  inward  unscrupulousness;  so  much  etiquette, 
with  so  little  self-sacrifice;  such  fertility  of  resources 
in  exigencies,  and  such  a  blindness  to  the  lessons  of 
experience;  aspirations  so  vivid,  with  so  little  sense  of 
what  constitutes  true  glory;  such  a  sensitiveness  to 
trifles,  and  such  an  indifference  to  a  political  revolu 
tion? 

A  Frenchman  is  versatile,  and  does  all  things  with 
equal  gust  and  enthusiasm;  he  chuckles  with  equal  joy 
at  finishing  a  toy  to  his  mind,  and  in  giving  to  a  new 
science  its  crowning  perfection.  Sa  gaite  est  de  la 
foudre,  et  sa  farce  tient  un  sceptre.  He  can  spend 
hours  in  chasing  butterflies,  or  he  can  pass  a  life-time 
in  elaborating  a  favorite  theory,  and  in  digging  into 
the  mysteries  of  a  dry  and  complex  subject.  He  is  the 
gayest  man  on  the  globe,  and  the  likeliest  to  send  a 
pistol-ball  through  his  own  brain;  the  most  fickle  of 
men,  and  the  most  obstinate;  the  politest,  and  the 
most  irascible;  the  devoutest,  and  the  most  atheistic; 


124  FKENCH  TRAITS.. 

a  friend  whom  you  shall  win  with  a  feather,  and  lose 
with  a  straw;  the  most  pregnant  of  talkers,  and  the 
most  diffuse;  an  orator  who,  as  Dr.  Donne  said  of 
Lady  Anne,  can  glide  at  once  "from  predestination  to 
slea-silk,"  or,  as  De  Quincey  said  of  Bishop  Berkeley, 
"pass  with  the  utmost  ease  and  speed  from  tar- water 
to  the  Trinity, —  from  a  mole-heap  to  the  thrones  of  a 
Godhead'."  He  will  wear,  without  shame,  the  shabbiest 
clothes,  yet  stop  in  the  street  before  a  looking-glass  to 
curl  his  moustache  and  adjust  his  cravat;  he  will  fight 
like  a  tiger  for  a  republic,  yet  lie  meek  as  a  spaniel 
under  an  empire.  In  short,  to  the  casual  observer,  a 
Frenchman  is  a  riddle  that  defies  solution, —  a  psycho 
logical  puzzle.  He  is  a  compound  of  paradoxes;  a 
harmony  of  differences;  a  being  born  under  the  con 
tending  influences  of  Mercury  and  Saturn. 

But,  lest  we  should  seem  to  be  aiming  at  antithesis 
rather  than  at  truth,  let  us  cite  the  authority  of  a  late 
French  writer,  who,  perhaps,  better  than  any  other, 
understood  the  true  character  of  his  countrymen. 
"Qualified  for  every  pursuit,"  says  Alexis  De  Tocque- 
ville,  "but  excelling  in  nothing  but  war,  more  prone  to 
worship  chance,  force,  success,  eclat,  noise,  than  real 
glory;  endowed  with  more  heroism  than  virtue,  more 
genius  than  common  sense;  better  adapted  to  the  con 
ception  of  grand  designs  than  the  accomplishment  of 
great  enterprises;  the  French  are  the  most  brilliant  and 
the  most  dangerous  nation  of  Europe,  and  the  one  that 
is  surest  to  inspire  admiration,  hatred,  terror,  or  pity, 
but  never  indifference." 

It  is  unfortunate  that,  in  judging  of  the  French, 
our  estimates  are  unconsciously  more  or  less  affected 
by  the  impressions  derived  from  English  literature. 
Nothing  can  be  more  ludicrous  or  more  untrue  than 


FRENCH  TRAITS.  125 

the  caricatures  which  most  English  tourists  have  given 
to  the  world  as  photographs  of  the  French  people.  Till 
lately,  it  has  seemed  hardly  possible  for  an  Englishman 
to  write  about  his  neighbors  across  the  channel  without 
dipping  his  pen  in  gall;  and  just  as  the  first  and  360th 
degrees  of  the  circle  are  the  farthest  apart,  though  the 
nearest  together,  so  these  two  peoples,  though  but 
twenty  miles  apart,  have  understood  each  other  as  little 
as  though  living  on  opposite  sides  of  the  globe.  Judg 
ing  by  many  of  these  libels,  one  would  suppose  that 
one  of  Nature's  journeymen  had  made  the  Frenchman, 
and  not  made  him  well.  An  English  historian  admits 
that,  till  a  few  years  ago,  the  Frenchman  was  regarded 
by  John  Bull  with  utter  contempt.  He  was  "a  lean, 
half-starved,  lankey-legged  creature,  looking  in  hopeless 
despair,  and  with  watery  mouth  and  bleared  eyes,  at 
a  round  of  English  beef.  His  attitude  was  grotesque; 
his  language  even  became  immensely  amusing,  because 
he  did  not  speak  English  with  the  slang  of  a  hackney- 
coachman  and  the  pronunciation  of  a  Cockney.  He 
was  nicknamed  Jack  Frog,  because  he  was  supposed  to 
feed  on  those  insubstantial  animals,  which  were  also 
fancied  to  be  the  exact  image  of  himself  in  hoppiness 
of  motion  and  yellowness  of  skin."  Of  course,  he  was 
an  arrant  coward,  as  well  as  a  mere  physical  ghost  of 
a  man,  and  one  Englishman  could  flog  half-a-dozen 
"mounseers"  as  easily  as  a  Yankee  could  flog  the  whole 
seven.  And  all  this  was  believed,  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  the  French  nation,  from  the  earliest  period  of 
history,  has  been  the  leading  nation  of  Europe.  Its 
original  races  long  disputed  the  supremacy  of  the  else 
all-conquering  Romans.  They  gave  to  Roman  literature 
some  of  its  most  accomplished  orators,  and  some  of  its 
most  elegant  writers.  Cicero  learned  eloquence  from 


126  FRENCH   TRAITS. 

one  of  their  teachers,  and  Caesar  acquired  in  Gaul  new 
arts  of  war.  All  through  the  middle  ages,  in  the 
Crusades,  in  the  great  national  wars,  in  the  religious 
commotions  of  the  sixteenth  century,  their  gallantry 
was  the  conspicuous  splendor  of  the  times.  Their 
writers  have  since  electrified  human  thought;  their 
brave  deeds  have  revolutionized  modern  politics;  their 
more  elegant  arts  have  been  the  despair  of  all  other 
peoples,  and  their  manners  the  standard  of  whatever 
was  polished,  courteous,  graceful,  and  pleasing  in  address. 
In  spite  of  all  these  facts,  to  many  Englishmen,  as 
they  look  across  the  straits  through  the  fogs  by  which 
they  are  surrounded,  the  Frenchman  is  either  a  danc 
ing-master  or  a  buffoon,  grimacing  and  shrugging  his 
shoulders  more  like  a  monkey  than  a  man. 

Disabusing  our  minds,  then,  so  far  as  possible,  of 
the  prejudices  derived  from  Anglo-Saxon  sources,  let  us 
proceed  to  analyze  the  French  character,  and  see  if  we 
can  ascertain  its  principal  elements.  In  comparing 
him  with  the  Englishman,  the  first  thing  that  strikes 
us  in  the  Frenchman  is  his  mercurial  nature, —  the 
extreme  delicacy  and  sensitiveness  of  his  organism.  It 
seems  almost  a  truism  to  speak  of  his  flexibility  and 
versatility,  so  unlike  the  cast-iron  mould  of  the  English 
man's  mind, —  of  the  capricious  desires  of  the  one,  and 
the  unchanging  wants  of  the  other;  but  these  facts 
have  their  value,  as  showing  how  all  the  traits  of  the 
English  character  are  bound  up  in  the  one  idea  of 
stability,  while  the  essence  of  the  French  nature  is 
mobility.  The  English  mind  is  comparatively  slow  and 
heavy;  it  proceeds  laboriously  from  fact  to  fact;  it 
seldom  jumps  or  flies,  but  advances  cautiously,  step  by 
step,  making  sure  always  of  the  first  before  it  takes  the 
second.  Hence,  it  is  jealous  of  other  minds  that  have 


FRENCH   TRAITS.  127 

much  facility  of  association,  and  cannot  conceal  its 
contempt  for  sallies  of  thought,  however  lawful,  whose 
steps  it  cannot  measure  by  its  twelve-inch  rule.  It  has 
little  sympathy  for  eccentric  greatness,  and  therefore  a 
man  of  genius  can  make  his  way  in  England  by  vio 
lence  only,  fighting  wildly  against  all  that  is  traditional, 
as  did  Byron,  Wordsworth,  and  Shelley.  The  mental 
qualities  of  the  French  are  directly  the  opposite  of 
these, —  consisting  in  quickness  of  perception,  self-con 
fidence,  and  precision  of  thought;  and  their  physical 
peculiarities  in  promptness  of  action  and  extreme  nerv 
ous  excitability.  It  is  this  intellectual  and  sensitive 
organism  which  has  fitted  them  for  the  part  they  have 
played  in  the  world's  history,  whether  in  the  realm  of 
matter  or  of  mind.  The  ancient  Gauls  were  like  a 
firebrand  in  the  midst  of  Europe,  setting  everything 
about  them  in  a  blaze;  and  the  modern  French  have 
been  equally  successful  in  their  efforts  to  disturb  the 
peace  of  nations.  Whether  led  by  a  Charlemagne  or 
Francis  I.,  by  a  Luxemburg  or  a  Napoleon,  they  have 
burst  like  a  tempest  upon  the  phlegmatic  people  of  the 
North,  and,  until  the  slower  energies  of  their  Gothic 
foes  were  roused,  have  swept  all  before  them.  The  one 
crowning  quality  of  greatness  which  they  have  lacked, 
is  patience.  They  could  carry  their  victorious  eagles 
over  the  burning  sands  of  Syria,  or  through  the  chill 
ing  snows  of  Russia;  but  they  could  never  have  stood 
all  day  in  one  place,  and  been  mowed  down  by  an 
enemy's  artillery,  or  cut  down  by  his  cavalry,  as  did 
Wellington's  troops  at  Waterloo.  They  could  build  a 
road  over  the  Alps  under  the  leadership  of  Napoleon, 
while  another  people  would  have  frozen  in  despair;  but 
in  executing  internal  improvements  which  require  long 
and  anxious  deliberation  to  plan  and  years  to  complete, 


128  FRENCH  TRAITS. 

they  have  lagged  behind  other  nations,  especially  the 
English. 

What  Caesar  said  of  the  ancient  Gauls  is  equally 
true  of  their  descendants  to-day:  "Nam,  ut  ad  bella 
suscipienda  Gallorum  alacer  ac  promptus  est  animus, 
sic  mollis  ac  minime  resistens  ad  calamitates  perferemlttx 
mens  eorum  est."  It  is  because  of  this  lack  of  pati»  in<- 
under  calamity  that  all  the  French  wars  with  England 
have  ended  unfortunately  for  France.  The  long  and 
bloody  conflict  between  William  III.  and  Louis  XIV. 
was  marked  by  no  signal  triumphs  of  the  English,  but 
it  was  organized  and  protracted  by  British  money  and 
persistence;  and  the  "asthmatic  skeleton"  who  dis 
puted,  sword  in  hand,  the  bloody  field  of  Landen, 
succeeded  at  last,  without  winning  a  single  great  victory, 
in  destroying  the  prestige  of  his  antagonist,  exhausting 
his  resources,  and  sowing  the  seeds  of  his  final  ruin, 
simply  by  the  superiority  of  British  patience  and  per 
severance.  So,  too,  in  the  "war  of  giants"  waged  with 
Napoleon,  when  all  the  great  military  powers  of  the 
continent  went  down  before  the  iron  flail  of  "the  child 
of  destiny "  like  ninepins,  England  wearied  him  out  by 
her  pertinacity,  rather  than  by  the  brilliancy  of  her 
operations,  triumphing  by  sheer  dogged  determination 
over  the  greatest  master  of  combination  the  world  ever 
saw. 

Another  striking  peculiarity  in  the  character  of  the 
French  is  what  may  be  called  the  liixtnnnic  element, — 
their  fondness  for  the  theatrical.  In  their  buildings, 
dress,  deportment,  they  have  always  an  eye  to  effect. 
The  traveller  finds  London,  like  its  inhabitants,  solid  and 
substantial,  but  gloomy.  The  houses  and  shops  are  heavy 
and  cumbersome,  with  many  marks  of  utility,  hut  few 
of  grace  and  beauty.  In  Paris  he  finds  a  city  of  palaces, 


FRENCH  TRAITS.  129 

light,  airy,  and  graceful,  designed  not  more  for  conve 
nience  than  for  architectural  effect.  Every  Frenchman 
is  a  born  actor.  Life  is  to  him  a  stage,  and  all  his 
plans  and  acts  have  more  or  less  reference  to  stage 
effect.  French  human  nature  is  not  like  English  or 
German  human  nature;  it  is  human  nature  elaborated 
and  adorned  by  art.  Hence  the  matchless  excellence 
of  the  French  vaudevilles,  which  are  so  many  photo 
graphs  of  the  national  manners;  and  hence,  also,  the 
insipidity  of  French  tragedy,  which,  scorning  to  be 
natural,  and  striving  to  be  classical,  neither  satisfies  the 
judgment  nor  grapples  with  the  heart.  The  proofs  of 
this  peculiarity  are  seen  everywhere  in  Paris;  in  the 
open  street  and  in  the  brilliant  salon;  in  the  Houses  of 
Parliament  and  in  the  judicial  halls;  in  the  artist  and 
in  the  author;  in  the  garpon  and  in  the  greybeard; 
from  the  Prime  Minister  down  to  the  gamin.  No 
occasion  is  too  solemn,  no  scene  too  impressive,  no 
object  too  beautiful,  to  check  this  love  of  display. 
Where  but  in  France  do  men  twist  the  graceful  forms 
of  vegetable  life  into  artificial  shapes,  sell  painted 
wreaths  at  cemetery  gates,  and  pronounce  rhetorical 
panegyrics  over  the  fresh  graves  of  their  friends?  In 
what  other  city  than  Paris  is  notoriety,  even  when 
scandalous,  as  sure  a  passport  to  social  distinction  as 
birth,  beauty,  or  fame?  Where  else,  when  a  savant 
dies,  do  students  drag  the  hearse  and  scatter  flowers 
over  his  grave?  Where  else  would  a  soldier  commit 
suicide  by  casting  himself  from  a  lofty  monument,  or  a 
maiden  and  her  lover  make  their  exit  from  life's  stage 
with  a  last  embrace  and  the  fumes  of  charcoal  ?  In  what 
other  country  would  a  mechanic,  in  praising  a  favorite 
living  author,  exclaim,  as  did  a  Parisian  in  extolling 
Beranger:  "What  a  man!  what  sublime  virtue!  how  is 


130  1  KHMCH   TRAITS. 

he  beloved !  Could  I  but  live  to  see  his  funeral !  Quelle 
spectacle!  Quelle  grande  emotion!"  In  what  English, 
American,  or  German  cemetery  can  one  find  sorrowing 
affection  expressed  as  at  Montmartre — viz.:  by  a  tomb 
stone  with  a  colossal  tear  carved  on  it,  and  underneath 
the  words,  "Judge  how  we  loved  him  I"  In  what  city 
but  Paris,  when  a  triumphant  enemy  was  thundering 
at  the  gates,  would  the  newspapers,  as  lately  in  the 
French  capital,  publish  lists  of  citizens  who  swear  to 
die  rather  than  surrender?  A  correspondent  of  the  New 
York  Tribune,  writing  from  Paris  during  the  siege  by 
the  Germans,  tells  us  that  the  bourgeois,  when  he  went 
to  the  ramparts,  embraced  his  wife  in  public,  and  as 
sumed  a  martial  strut  as  though  he  were  a  very  Curtius 
on  the  way  to  the  pit.  Jules  was  perpetually  embracing 
Auguste,  and  raving  about  "the  altar  of  our  country," 
which  he  intended  to  mount;  while  every  girl  who 
tripped  along  fancied  she  was  a  maid  of  Saragossa. 

This  anxiety  about  appearances,  this  fondness  for 
display,  has  marked  the  French  character  in  all  ages. 
Montaigne,  three  centuries  ago,  declared  that  lying  was 
"  not  a  vice  among  the  French,  but  a  way  of  speaking." 
"Paris,"  said  Frederic  W.  Robertson,  "is  the  natural 
birthplace  of  all  that  is  refinedly  brutal."  "To  a 
Frenchman,"  says  Mrs.  Jameson,  "the  words  that  ex 
press  things  seem  the  things  themselves,  and  he  pro 
nounces  the  words  amour,  grace,  sensibilite,  etc.,  with  a 
relish  in  his  mouth,  as  if  he  tasted  them,  as  if  he 
possessed  them."  It  is  to  be  feared  that  a  Frenchman 
will  even  forgive  an  atrocious  crime  to  the  author  of  a 
sounding  sentiment;  an  example  of  which  we  have  in 
Louis  Blanc,  whose  one  unanswerable  reason  for  sup 
posing  that  there  must  be  some  way  or  other  of  explain 
ing  away  Robespierre's  criminality  is,  that  he  once  said 


FRENCH   TRAITS.  131 

something  extremely  benevolent  about  the  hardship  of 
being  poor.  "In  this  country,"  wrote  Laurence  Sterne, 
at  the  close  of  the  eighteenth  century,  "nothing  must 
be  spared  for  the  back;  and  if  you  dine  on  an  onion, 
and  live  in  a  garret  seven  stories  high,  you  must  not 
betray  it  in  your  clothes/'  "Here,"  continues  another 
traveler  in  France,  "things  are  estimated  by  their  air; 
a  watch  may  be  a  masterpiece  without  exactness,  and 
a  woman  rule  the  whole  town  without  beauty,  if  they 
have  an  air.  Her  life's  a  dance,  and  awkwardness  of 
step  its  greatest  disgrace."  A  late  panegyrist  of  the 
French  admits  that  the  necessity  of  attracting  is  in 
the  Gallic  blood.  It  may  be  controlled,  he  says,  by  the 
deep  sentiment  of  one  absorbing  duty;  it  may  be  tem 
porarily  suppressed  by  other  more  urgent  needs;  it 
may  be  modified  in  its  expression  by  the  thousand 
accidents  of  position;  but  it  is  at  the  bottom  of  all 
Frenchwomen's  hearts,  though  it  comes  out  in  so  many 
varied  forms,  that  it  is  not  always  easy  to  recognize  its 
presence.  "  Concentrated  in  her  *  manners,'  all  the  varied 
elements  of  her  coquetry  come  out.  Her  every  bow  is 
critically  measured  according  to  the  person  to  whom  it 
is  addressed,  and  the  effect  which  it  is  intended  to 
produce.  From  the  long,  low,  sweeping  curtsey  with 
which,  on  a  first  introduction,  she  salutes  a  woman  of 
high  rank,  through  the  long,  delicately  graduated  scale 
of  forms  of  recognition,  down  to  the  familiar  nod  and 
extended  hand,  with  which,  without  rising  from  her 
sofa-corner,  she  greets  her  male  friends,  each  movement 
implies  a  thought,  each  variation  telegraphs  a  mean 
ing,  each  shade  suggests  the  nature  of  the  reply  which 
she  expects."  This  vanity  of  the  French  causes  them 
to  boast  even  of  those  things  which  would  cause  an 
American  or  Englishman  to  hang  down  his  head  with 


132  FRENCH   TRAITS. 

shame.  For  example,  an  Englishman  chanced  to  be  in 
the  Elysian  Fields  at  a  grand  review  of  the  Prussian 
and  English  soldiers  who  occupied  Paris  in  1815.  From 
a  feeling  of  delicacy  he  shunned  all  allusion  to  an 
event  which  he  fancied  must  be  a  source  of  deep 
humiliation  to  France.  But  a  Parisian  came  up  to 
him,  and  said  jauntily:  "Look  here,  sir!  What  a 
magnificent  spectacle!  It's  only  in  Paris  that  you  see 
such  sights!" 

The  moral  gulf  that  separates  the  Frenchman  and 
the  Englishman  is  illustrated  by  nothing  more  vividly 
than  by  the  different  motives  addressed  by  Napoleon 
and  Nelson  to  their  respective  followers.  "Soldiers!" 
exclaimed  the  former,  "forty  centuries  are  looking 
down  upon  you  from  the  summits  of  those  pyramids!" 
"Eugland,"  telegraphed  the  latter  to  his  fleet,  "expects 
every  man  to  do  his  duty."  The  fact  that  the  word 
"glory"  perpetually  occurs  in  Bonaparte's  despatches, 
while  in  Wellington's,  which  fill  twelve  enormous  vol 
umes,  it  never  once  occurs,  but  "duty"  is  invariably 
named  as  the  motive  for  every  action,  is  also  intensely 
significant  regarding  the  characters  of  the  two  peoples. 
Glory, —  that  word  forever  on  a  Frenchman's  lips, —  has 
been  in  all  ages  the  will-o-the-wisp  which  has  led 
France  astray ;  the  golden  calf  before  which,  as  Strauss 
lately  reminded  Renan,  she  has  danced  for  centuries; 
the  Fata  Morgana  which  has  allured  her  again  and 
again  from  the  prosperous  fields  of  labor  into  the 
desert,  often  to  the  very  brink  of  an  abyss.  It  is  this 
"staginess,"  this  untruth,  this  lack  of  loyalty  to  nature, 
that  provokes  the  dissatisfaction  we  feel  in  the  last 
analysis  of  French  character.  We  find  that  the  quali 
ties  which  dazzled  us  are  a  sham.  The  promise  of 
beauty  held  out  by  external  taste  is  not  fulfilled;  the 


FRENCH   TEAITS.  133 

fascination  of  manner, —  the  courtesies,  bows,  and  smiles, 
—  bear,  as  another  has  said,  a  vastly  undue  proportion 
to  the  substantial  kindness  and  trust  which  that  imme 
diate  charm  suggests. 

The  gruffness  of  an  Englishman,  when  a  stranger 
addresses  him,  does  anything  but  awaken  expectation 
of  courtesy  or  entertainment;  yet,  if  he  consents  to 
entertain  you,  with  what  a  princely  hospitality  does  he 
welcome  you  to  his  home!  and,  if  he  calls  you  friend, 
how  does  he  grapple  you  to  his  heart  with  hooks  of 
steel!  On  the  other  hand,  the  profusion  of  courtesies 
with  which  a  Frenchman  greets  a  woman  as  she  enters 
a  public  conveyance  is  not  followed  by  the  offer  of  his 
seat;  while  the  roughest  backwoodsman  in  America, 
who  never  touched  his  hat  or  crooked  his  body  to  a 
stranger,  will  guard  the  poorest  woman  from  insult, 
and  incommode  himself  with  respectful  alacrity  to  pro 
mote  her  comfort.  So  generally  is  the  lack  of  sim 
plicity  recognized  as  an  essential  element  in  the  French 
character,  that  when  we  wish  to  express  the  opposite 
of  natural  tastes,  we  can  find  no  word  more  significant 
than  "Frenchified."  The  morbid  self-consciousness 
which  characterizes  the  French,  which  runs  through 
their  oratory,  their  conversation,  and  their  manners,  is 
fatal  to  the  highest  excellence,  intellectual  or  moral. 
Simplicity  and  earnestness, —  self-forgetfulness  and  aban 
donment, —  the  ability,  as  Coleridge  terms  it,  "to  lose 
self  in  an  idea  dearer  than  self," — is  the  condition  of 
all  greatness.  It  is  this  which  has  distinguished  pre 
eminently  the  heroes  and  martyrs  of  every  age ;  all 
who  have  bled  or  died  to  maintain  a  principle ;  all  who 
have  electrified  us  by  their  oratory,  or  charmed  us  by 
their  numbers,  all  who  by  deed  or  word  have  won  a 
lasting  place  in  the  affections  or  memories  of  mankind. 


134  FRENCH  TRAITS. 

A  late  writer  justly  remarks  that  in  loyalty  to  a 
method  the  French  are  unrivalled,  in  the  triumph  of 
individualities  weak.  Their  artisans  can  make  a  glove 
fit  perfectly,  but  have  yet  to  learn  how  to  cut  out  a 
coat.  "Their  authors,  like  their  soldiers,  can  be  mar 
shalled  in  groups;  means  are  superior  to  ends;  manners, 
the  exponent  of  nature  in  other  lands,  there  color,  mod 
ify,  and  characterize  the  development  of  intellect;  the 
subordinate  principle  in  government,  in  science,  and  in 
life  becomes  paramount;  the  laws  of  disease  are  pro 
foundly  studied,  while  this  knowledge  bears  no  propor 
tional  relation  to  the  practical  art  of  healing;  the 
ancient  rules  of  dramatic  literature  are  pedantically 
followed,  while  the  'pity  and  terror '  they  were  made  to 
illustrate  are  uuawakened.  So,  in  politics,  the  pro 
gramme  of  republican  government  is  lucidly  announced, 
its  watchwords  adopted,  its  philosophy  expounded,  while 
its  spirit  and  realization  continue  in  abeyance;  and 
thus  everywhere  we  find  a  singular  disproportion  be 
tween  formula  and  fact,  profession  and  practice,  specific 
knowledge  and  its  application." 

Another  peculiarity  of  the  Frenchman  is,  that  he  is 
not  self-centred  and  self-contained;  that,  more  than 
other  men,  he  is  dependent  for  happiness  upon  things 
without  himself.  The  famous  song  of  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh,  "My  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is,"  we  may  be 
sure  that  no  Frenchman  could  ever  have  written.  It 
is  certain  that  the  sentiment,  "Never  less  alone  than 
when  alone,"  came  not  from  the  pen  of  a  native  of 
France.  While  the  Englishman  shrinks  like  the  turtle 
within  his  shell,  the  Frenchman  is  gregarious;  the 
former  is  happiest  when  he  shuts  his  door  on  the 
world,  and  hugs  his  fireside ;  the  latter,  when  mingling 
with  his  fellows,  in  the  crowded  theatre  or  the  noisy 


FRENCH  TRAITS.  135 

street.  A  life  spent  in  discharging  the  plain,  homely 
duties  of  his  calling,  with  no  alternations  but  domestic 
joys  and  recreations, —  with  no  factitious  excitements  or 
public  diversions, —  would  be  to  him  the  ideal  of  tame- 
ness  and  insipidity.  Give  an  Englishman  a  home,  and 
he  can  easily  forego  society.  Even  the  solitude  of  the 
wilderness  has  no  terrors  for  him,  and  he  is  happy  on 
the  very  borders  of  civilization.  The  French,  on  the 
other  hand,  have  failed  almost  utterly  as  colonizers,  be 
cause  of  their  intense  social  instincts, — the  secret,  no 
doubt,  of  their  exquisite  courtesy  of  manner, —  and  be 
cause  they  can  never  forget  that  they  are  Frenchmen. 
The  shortest  absence  from  "la  belle  France"  is  regarded 
as  a  calamity;  and  the  people,  as  a  whole,  shrink  from 
expatriation,  and  even  refrain  from  foreign  travel, — 
not  because  they  lack  adaptability,  for  they  have  it  in 
a  preeminent  degree, — but  because  they  count  every 
moment  as  lost  in  which  they  are  cut  off  from  the 
society  and  sympathy  of  their  fellows.  "Le  Francais," 
says  Maurice  Sand,  "  vit  dans  son  semblaUe  autant  qu'en 
hii-meme.  Quand  il  est  longtemps  seul,  il  deperit,  et 
quand  il  est  toujours  seul,  il  meurt"  The  same  writer 
has  justly  observed  that  in  America  the  individual  ab 
sorbs  society;  in  France,  society  absorbs  the  individual. 
It  is  not  a  meaningless  fact  that  the  French  language 
has  no  such  words  as  comfort  and  home.  Hence  it  is 
that  in  Paris  the  triumph  of  material  niceties  reaches 
its  acme ;  that,  for  superficial  amusements,  that  city  has 
grown  to  be  the  capital  of  the  world.  Paris  is  the 
theatre  of  the  nations;  a  vast  museum;  a  place  of 
amusement,  not  of  work;  an  Elysium,  to  which  all  the 
world's  idlers  and  triflers,— all  who  are  plethoric  with 
wealth  which  they  are  puzzled  to  spend, —  all  who  are 
dying  of  ennui,  and  seeking  for  new  devices  to  kill 


136  FRENCH   TRAITS. 

time,— naturally  flock.  Here  are  the  appliances,  multi 
plied  and  diversified  with  the  keenest  refinement  of 
sensual  ingenuity,  for  keeping  the  mi-nd  busy  without 
labor,  and  fascinated  without  sensibility.  The  senses  of 
the  Parisian  are  everywhere  captivated  with  piquant 
baits;  as  he  steps  into  the  world,  he  finds  a  life  all 
prepared  for  him,  and  selects  it  as  he  does  his  dinner 
from  the  long  carte  of  the  restaurante.  Where  but  in 
France  would  a  grave  jurist  write  a  learned  work  on 
the  Physiology  of  Taste,  and  announce  that  "the  dis 
covery  of  a  new  dish  does  more  for  human  happiness 
than  the  discovery  of  a  new  star;"  or  a  great  statesman 
complain  of  the  English  people  that  they  have  one 
hundred  and  fifty  forms  of  religion  and  but  one  sauce, 
namely,  melted  butter?  It  is  a  significant  fact  that 
Paris  has  scarcely  any  other  employment  for  its  two 
millions  of  inhabitants  than  just  those  which  are  the 
first  to  fail  in  the  hour  of  adversity.  Its  faubourgs  are 
occupied  by  manufacturers,  not  of  articles  that  men 
must  have,  but  of  bronzes,  ormolu,  marqueterie,  buhl- 
work-furniture,  mirrors,  china,  clocks,  table-ornaments, 
marbles,  and  all  that  contributes  to  mere  appearance 
and  enjoyment.  You  will  find  in  the  city  about  an 
equal  number  of  celebrated  dancing-masters  and  cele 
brated  teachers  of  mathematics;  and  the  municipality 
pays  one  third  more  for  its  f6tes  than  it  does  for  its 
religion. 

It  was  a  Frenchman  who  said  of  his  countrymen, 
that  there  never  was  a  nation  more  led  by  its  sensa 
tions,  and  less  by  its  principles.  It  is  said  that,  in  the 
latter  days  of  Charles  James  Fox,  a  conversation  took 
place  in  his  presence,  on  the  comparative  wisdom  of 
the  French  and  English  character.  "  The  Frenchman,5* 
it  was  observed,  "delights  himself  with  the  present; 


FRENCH   TRAITS.  137 

the  Englishman  makes  himself  anxious  about  the  future. 
Is  not  the  Frenchman  the  wiser?"  "He  may  be  the 
merrier,"  said  Fox,  "but  did  you  ever  hear  of  a  savage 
who  did  not  buy  a  mirror  in  preference  to  a  telescope  ?" 
But  it  is  in  the  literature  of  a  people  that,  more 
faithfully  than  in  anything  else,  is  mirrored  the  na 
tional  character;  and  true  as  this  is  of  every  civilized 
nation,  it  is  especially  true  of  the  French.  The  leading 
intellects  of  France  have  been  always,  not  only  the 
authors,  but  also  the  expop^gps  of  the  thoughts  and 
feelings  of  the  people;  and  nowhere  has  a  more  perfect 
allegiance  been  rendered  to  those  intellectual  kings 
who  govern  by  the  divine  right  of  wit  and  genius,  and 
who,  when  dead,  still  "  rule  us  from  their  urns."  The 
first  fact  that  impresses  every  student  of  French  litera 
ture  is  the  remarkable  clearness  of  the  writers;  their 
superiority  to  all  their  European  rivals  in  perspicuity 
and  precision.  It  is  a  remarkable  fact  that,  in  the  age 
of  our  great  writers,  when  our  literature  was  unrivalled 
in  the  gorgeous  opulence  of  its  rhetoric,  the  English 
language  was  never  once  made  the  object  of  conscious 
attention.  No  man  seems  ever  to  have  reflected  that 
there  was  a  wrong  and  a  right  in  the  choice  of  words 
or  phrases,  in  the  mechanism  of  sentences,  or  even 
in  the  grammar.  Men  wrote  eloquently  because  they 
wrote  feelingly;  they  wrote  idiomatically  because  they 
wrote  naturally  and  without  affectation;  but  if  a  false 
or  acephalous  structure  of  sentence, —  if  a  barbarous 
word  or  a  foreign  idiom, —  chanced  to  present  itself, 
no  writer  of  the  seventeenth  century  was  scrupulous 
enough  to  correct  it.  The  French  writers,  on  the  other 
hand,  early  saw  the  supreme  importance  of  artistic 
expression,  and  gave  more  attention  to  the  cultivation 
of  their  language, —  to  the  study  of  its  idiomatic  niceties 


138  FRENCH  TRAITS. 

and  delicacies, —  than  any  other  people.  Partly  because 
the  French  mind  has  a  keener  perception  than  the 
English  of  the  Greek-like  simplicity  and  directness 
which  belong  to  the  highest  artistic  beauty;  partly 
because  the  French  have  more  conscience  in  intellec 
tual  matters,  and  partly  because  the  French  Academy 
acted  as  a  literary  police  for  the  suppression  of  verbal 
license,  France,  more  than  two  centuries  ago,  took 
the  lead  in  literary  workmanship,  and  that  supremacy 
she  still  maintains.  While  the  great  writers  of  England 
were  still  pouring  forth  their  thoughts  with  inartistic 
skill,  or  were  rising  to  perfect  beauty  of  statement  only 
when  possessed  with  that  white-heat  of  passion  which 
gives  to  rhetoric  an  arrowy  directness  and  a  rhyth 
mical  flow,  France  had  already  achieved  a  classic  pro 
priety  of  style,  and  to-day  she  teaches  rhetoric  to 
England  with  as  much  authority  as  Greece  taught  it 
to  Rome.  What  English  author  of  the  sixteenth  or 
seventeenth  centuries  rivals  in  style  the  exquisite  beau 
ty  of  Pascal?  Who  in  the  eighteenth  exhibits  such  a 
command  of  all  the  luxuries  and  delicacies  of  expression 
—  such  a  marriage  of  rhythmical  music  with  logical  ac 
curacy  of  thought  —  as  Paul  Louis  Courier?  and  where 
in  the  nineteenth  shall  we  find  another  style  so  artis 
tic  as  that  of  Ren  an  or  George  Sand;  so  delicate, 
brilliant,  equable,  and  strong  as  that  of  Sainte-Beuve  ? 
It  is  a  singular  fact  that  the  oft-quoted  saying, 
"Language  was  given  to  man  to  conceal  his  thought," 
should  have  come  from  a  Frenchman, —  the  man  who 
of  all  men  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  wears  his  heart  on 
his  sleeve,  and  no  sooner  has  a  thought  or  emotion 
than  he  is  in  an  agony  to  communicate  it.  Of  all  the 
faults  of  style,  there  is  no  other  for  which  a  Frenchman 
has  so  profound  a  horror  as  for  obscurity.  Take  all 


FRENCH  TEAITS.  139 

the  Gallic  writers,  from  Montaigne  to  Lamartine,  and 
search  through  the  works  of  each,  from  title-page  to 
finis,  and  you  will  hunt  as  vainly  for  an  obscure  passage, 
as  in  a  German  author  for  a  clear  one.  Dip  where 
you  will  into  Pascal,  Descartes,  Bossuet,  Eousseau,  or 
Taine,  you  will  find  every  sentence  written  as  with  a 
sunbeam.  Nothing  can  be  more  even  than  the  flow, 
nothing  more  logical  than  the  structure  of  the  periods ; 
the  limpid  clearness  of  the  j|Bbled  brook  runs  through 
them  all;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  Taylor,  Hooker, 
and  Milton  abound  with  ellipses,  parentheses,  and  invo 
lutions,  and  your  great  German  thinker, — especially  if 
a  metaphysician, — treats  a  sentence  as  a  sort  of  carpet 
bag,  into  which  to  cram  all  the  ideas  it  can  be  made 
to  hold.  As  with  the  giants  of  French  literature,  so 
with  the  dwarfs ;  shallow  these  may  be,  but  foggy  and 
incomprehensible,  never.  Even  one  of  the  most  distin 
guished  English  critics  admits  that,  in  the  competition 
of  the  literary  chiefs  of  Europe,  the  palm  of  superiority 
must  be  given  to  the  writers,  not  of  his  own  country, 
but  of  France.  "  Darkened,"  he  says,  "  as  the  literary 
language  of  France  has  often  been  by  the  fumes  of 
undigested  metaphysics,  there  is  no  author,  and  scarcely 
any  reader  there,  who  would  not  stand  aghast  at  the 
introduction  into  his  native  tongue  of  that  inorganic 
language  which  even  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  himself 
tumbled  out,  in  some  of  his  more  elaborate  specula 
tions,  and  with  which  the  imitators  of  that  great  man 
are  at  this  day  distorting  and  Germanizing  the  speech 
of  our  progenitors." 

Now  what  do  these  facts  indicate  regarding  the 
French  mind?  What  are  the  qualities  of  the  French 
people  that  render  clearness  a  fundamental  law  with 
them  of  all  good  composition?  We  have  in  it,  first, 


140  FRENCH  TRAITS. 

a  proof  of  the  genial,  sympathetic,  and  communicative 
spirit  of  the  nation.  The  French  are  an  eminently  so 
cial  people,  and  their  authors  have  always  their  readers 
directly  before  them.  A  German  writes  obscurely,  be 
cause  his  happiness  is  in  secluded  rumination.  A 
Frenchman  always  writes  clearly,  because  his  happiness 
is  in  social  and  intellectual  intercourse.  The  first  calls 
up  shadowy  dreams  not  less  with  his  pen  than  with 
his  pipe.  The  other  is  engaged  in  the  commerce  of 
thought  in  his  study,  not  less  than  in  the  salon.  Hence 
the  superiority  of  the  French  in  conversation  and  letter- 
writing,  and  in  all  the  forms  of  literature  where  grace, 
sprightliness,  and  sportiveness  are  required.  The  ease, 
liveliness,  brilliancy,  and  naivete  of  their  familiar  letters 
are  confessed  by  the  critics  of  every  nation;  and  their 
"Historical  Memoirs," — which  are  but  another  kind  of 
familiar  letters,  addressed  to  society  at  large, —  surpass 
in  number  and  excellence  those  of  all  other  countries 
put  together.  The  language  of  the  French  being  that 
of  a  people  which  speaks  more  than  it  thinks,  which 
needs  to  speak  in  order  to  think,  and  which  thinks 
only  to  speak,  is  preeminently  adapted  to  conversation. 
The  delicacy  and  keenness  of  French  wit  must  strike 
every  reader  of  their  literature.  Light,  playful,  brilliant, 
—  glancing  as  the  sunbeam, — its  meaning  can  travel 
from  one  mind  to  another  by  the  airy  conveyance  of 
an  intonation,  an  interjection,  or  a  word.  Anglo-Saxon 
wit,  in  comparison,  is  ponderous  and  clumsy,  reminding 
one  of  the  elephant  "wreathing  his  lithe  proboscis;" 
and,  indeed,  one  might  as  well  attempt  to  catch  the 
sunbeam,  and  shut  it  up  in  a  box,  as  to  express  in 
Saxon-English  the  delicate,  ethereal  beauty  of  French 
wit  or  sentiment,  which,  expressible  only  by  that  tongue 
of  polished  steel,  defies  alike  imitation  and  translation. 


FRENCH   TRAITS.  141 

As  the  French  are  the  wittiest  of  the  European  peo 
ples,  so  there  is  none  by  whom  wit  is  more  keenly 
appreciated,  or  among  whom  it  produces  so  prodi 
gious  effects.  How  many  political  events  in  France  has 
a  bon  mot  heralded!  How  many  has  it  occasioned! 
Never  was  there  a  government  in  France  that  did  not 
turn  pale  at  a  caricature,  shudder  at  a  political  song, 
or  tremble  at  an  epigram.  Lamercur  says,  in  his  ad 
dress  to  the  Academy,  "  The  ffl^ory  of  France  is  written 
by  its  song-makers;"  and  Chamfort  wittily  designates 
"the  old  regime"  as  "an  absolute  monarchy  tem 
pered  by  epigrams."  Hardly  any  man  ever  became 
famous  in  France  without  having  a  witticism  of  some 
kind  attached  to  his  reputation.  Henry  IV.,  it  has  been 
said,  reigned  by  Ion  mots;  and  even  Bonaparte  could 
not  dispense  with  them.  A  series  of  Ion  mots, — begun 
by  Voltaire,  continued  by  Diderot,  and  systematized  by 
Helvetius, —  destroyed  the  ancient  religion,  sapped  the 
foundations  of  the  throne,  and  changed  the  destinies  of 
the  monarchy  which  Louis  XIV.  imagined  he  had  fixed 
for  centuries. 

It  is  the  social  nature  of  the  French, —  this  intense 
power  of  sympathy, —  which  is  the  foundation  not  only 
of  their  virtues,  but  also  of  their  most  beautiful  intel 
lectual  qualities,  and  of  their  unrivaled  influence  (at 
least  till  very  recently),  in  Europe.  What  other  nation 
has  exhibited  so  constant  and  so  vivid  a  sympathy  for 
the  struggles  for  freedom  beyond  its  border,  and  in 
what  other  literature  shall  we  find  so  expansive  and 
ecumenical  a  genius,  or  so  generous  an  appreciation  of 
foreign  ideas?  Who  will  say  that  Guizot  claims  too 
much  when  he  asserts  that  France  is  the  focus,  the 
centre  of  the  civilization  of  Europe;  that  the  best 
ideas  and  institutions  of  other  countries,  before  they 


142  FRENCH  TRAITS. 

could  become  general,  have  had  to  undergo  in  France 
a  new  preparation,  and  thence  start  forth  for  the  con 
quest  of  the  world?  Or  who  will  accuse  Demogeot  of 
exaggeration  when  he  declares  that,  though  England 
started  the  eighteenth  century  on  its  literary  career,  it 
was  from  France  that  it  received  its  most  powerful  and 
lasting  impulse?  That  which  among  the  English  was 
scattered,  he  says,  centred  in  France  in  a  burning 
focus;  a  common  aim  gave  to  new  ideas  an  irresistible 
power.  Disciplined  even  in  mutiny,  the  French  philo 
sophers,  notwithstanding  their  bickerings,  had  in  com 
mon  one  purpose,  one  method,  one  will;  for  France  is 
everywhere  one.  "They  gave  to  the  cold  speculations 
of  Englishmen  the  fiery  life  of  a  rousing  popular  elo 
quence;  the  discreet  and  learned  skepticism  of  Collins, 
Tindal,  and  Bolingbroke  was  sharpened  by  the  biting 
sarcasm  of  Voltaire,  and  glowed  with  the  burning 
theism  of  Rousseau.  Newton  left  his  sanctuary  and 
came  among  us,  thanks  to  the  author  of  the  'Lettres 
Anglaises/  and  of  the  'Elements  de  Philosophic;'  the 
frigid  and  didactic  analysis  of  Locke  felt  cold  and 
unpalatable  after  the  spirit-stirring  pages  of  'Emile' 
and  of  the  *  Contrat  Social.'  It  seemed,  indeed,  as 
though  an  English  idea  could  get  a  hearing  in  the 
world  only  after  having  found  in  France  its  European 
expression  and  its  immortal  form." 

Lord  Macaulay  admits  that  the  literature  of  France 
has  been  to  that  of  England  what  Aaron  was  to  Moses, 
the  expositor  of  great  truths  which  would  else  have 
perished  for  want  of  a  voice  to  utter  them  with  dis 
tinctness.  "The  great  discoveries  in  physics,  in  meta 
physics,  in  political  science,  are  ours.  But  scarcely  any 
foreign  nation,  except  France,  has  received  them  from 
us  by  direct  communication.  Isolated  in  our  situation, 


FRENCH  TEAITS.  143 

isolated  by  our  manners,  we  found  truth,  but  we  did 
not  impart  it.  France  has  been  the  interpreter  between 
England  and  mankind."  De  Maistre,  who  had  pro 
foundly  studied  the  French  character,  shows  in  the 
"Soirees  de  St.  Petersbourg,"  that  there  never  existed 
a  nation  easier  to  deceive,  harder  to  undeceive,  or  more 
powerful  to  deceive  others.  "M^o  peculiar  character 
istics,"  says  he,  addressing  the  Wench,  "distinguish  you 
from  all  the  other  peoples  of  the  world, —  the  spirit  of 
association  and  the  spirit  of  proselytism.  All  your 
ideas  are  national  and  passionate  to  the  core.  The 
electric  spark,  running,  like  the  lightning  from  which 
it  comes,  through  a  mass  of  men  in  communication, 
feebly  represents  the  instantaneous,  I  had  almost  said 
thundering,  invasion  of  a  taste,  of  a  system,  of  a  pas 
sion  among  the  French,  who  cannot  live  isolated.  If 
you  would  but  act  upon  yourselves,  one  might  let  you 
alone ;  but  the  passion,  the  necessity,  the  rage  for  acting 
upon  others,  is  the  most  salient  trait  of  your  character. 
*  *  *  Every  people  has  its  mission;  such  is 
yours.  The  slightest  opinion  which  you  launch  upon 
Europe  is  a  battering-ram  propelled  by  thirty  millions 
of  men." 

It  is  true  that,  in  the  recent  deplorable  war,  France 
was  the  unjust  aggressor;  yet,  we  need  not  fear  to  ask, 
in  what  other  land  would  a  war  for  a  down-trodden 
and  outraged  people  find  so  enthusiastic  a  support  as 
from  her?  The  national  crimes  of  France  are  many 
and  grievous,  but,  as  Mr.  Lecky  remarks,  "much  will 
be  forgiven  her,  because  she  has  loved  much."  On  the 
other  hand,  the  Anglo-Saxon  race,  while  it  has  been 
distinguished  for  its  keen  moral  sense  and  its  loyalty 
to  duty,  and  while  its  sympathies  for  others  have  been 
momentarily  roused  even  to  a  lofty  pitch,  has  been,  on 


144  FRENCH  TRAITS. 

the  whole,  hard,  narrow,  and  unsympathetic.  It  en 
gages  in  no  crusades  of  philanthropy,  no  wars  against 
oppressors,  till  it  has  taken  up  the  slate  and  found 
that  the  expedition  will  "pay."  Even  in  his  private 
charities,  John  Bull  never  lets  his  feelings  run  away 
with  his  reason.  In  the  midst  of  the  most  heartrend 
ing  narratives,  according  to  Sydney  Smith,  he  requires 
the  day  of  the  month,  the  year  of  our  Lord,  the  name 
of  the  parish,  and  the  countersign  of  three  or  four  re 
spectable  householders.  "After  these  affecting  circum 
stances  he  can  no  longer  hold  out,  but  gives  way  to 
the  kindness  of  his  nature, — puffs,  blubbers,  and  sub 
scribes."  In  the  management  of  his  own  affairs,  the 
Englishman  exhibits  the  grandest  qualities  of  endur 
ance,  energy,  and  skill.  His  literature  is  rich,  exalted, 
copious,  and  profound.  The  researches  of  his  scientists 
exhaust  the  secrets  of  nature;  his  travellers  scour  the 
globe;  his  accumulations  of  wealth  surpass  the  fabled 
hoards  of  the  Roman  patricians;  and  his  countless 
fleets  teach  the  world  to  stand  in  awe  of  his  gigantic 
power.  But  in  his  judgments  of  other  men,  he  is  the 
narrowest  of  men.  His  eyes  cannot  pierce  beyond  the 
thick  fogs  which  surround  his  island  into  the  regions 
beyond.  "Our  country,"  acknowledges  a  late  English 
writer,  "is  an  island,  and  we  despise  the  rest  of  Europe, 
onr  county  is  an  island,  and  we  despise  the  other 
shires;  our  parish  is  an  island,  with  peculiar  habits, 
modes,  and  institutions;  our  households  are  islands; 
and,  to  complete  the  whole,  each  stubborn,  broad- 
shouldered,  strong-backed  Englishman  is  an  island, 
surrounded  by  a  misty,  tumultuous  sea  of  prejudices 
and  hatreds,  generally  unapproachable,  and  at  all  times 
utterly  repudiative  of  a  permanent  bridge." 

The  exquisite  perspicuity  of  the  French   literature 


FRENCH  TRAITS.  145 

shows,  further,  that  in  the  French  mind  the  reasoning 
faculty  predominates.  Implicit  believers  in  logic,  anx 
ious  to  sound  all  the  depths,  and  to  scale  all  the  heights 
of  human  knowledge,  the  French  are  mortal  foes  to 
obscurity,  and  wage  an  unending  war  against  all  the 
powers  of  mental  darkness.  "The  most  subtle  of 
analysts,"  says  Sir  James  Stephen,  "the  Frenchman 
dissects  his  ideas  into  their  component  parts  with  a 
touch  at  once  so  delicate  and  so  firm  as  almost  to 
justify  his  exulting  comparison  of  his  own  vocabulary 
with  that  of  Athens.  The  most  perspicuous  of  experi 
mentalists,  he  explores  with  the  keenest  glance  all  the 
phenomena  from  which  his  conclusions  are  to  be  de 
rived.  The  most  precise  of  logicians,  he  reasons  from 
such  premises  with  the  most  undiscolored  mental  vision. 
The  most  aspiring  of  theorists,  he  fixes  an  eagle  gaze 
on  the  highest  eminences  of  thought,  and  passes  from 
one  mountain-top  of  speculation  to  another  with  a  vigor 
and  an  ease  peculiar  to  himself.  And  hence  it  has  hap 
pened  that  the  writers  of  France  have  become  either  the 
teachers  or  the  interpreters  of  science  and  philosophy  to 
the  world  at  large;  that  their  civil  jurisprudence  forms 
the  most  simple  and  comprehensive  of  all  existing  codes 
of  law;  and  that  their  historians,  their  moralists,  and 
their  poets  breathe  freely  in  a  transcendental  atmosphere 
too  rare  and  attenuated  to  sustain  the  intellectual  life 
of  grosser  minds  than  theirs." 

On  the  other  hand,  this  logical  structure  of  the 
French  understanding,  while  it  insures  the  highest 
clearness  and  luminousness  of  style,  has  led  to  that 
tendency  to  push  every  conclusion  to  its  utmost  conse 
quences, — to  that  remorseless  Ergoisme,  as  they  have 
happily  termed  it, — which  is  so  striking  a  feature  in 
their  intellectual  character.  The  slaves  of  syllogism, 


146  FRENCH  TRAITS. 

they  march  with  unflinching  intrepidity  to  any  conse 
quence,  however  absurd,  which  seems  to  follow  from 
what  they  regard  as  well  established  premises;  while 
they  reject  any  doctrine,  however  strongly  it  commends 
itself  to  their  instincts  and  to  the  instincts  of  the  race, 
if  it  cannot  be  demonstrated  in  mood  and  figure.  Un 
fortunately,  there  are  some  ideas  which  cannot  be  ex 
pressed  in  terms  perfectly  transparent  or  unambiguous, 
because  they  relate  to  subjects  beyond  the  range  of 
human  observation  and  of  human  experience.  There 
are  certain  supersensuous  notions  and  doctrines  which 
command  our  implicit  assent,  but  which  cannot  be  ex 
plained  with  the  clearness  with  which  one  can  define 
material  things,  and  the  proofs  of  which  cannot  be 
adequately  stated  in  syllogisms;  yet  these  are  con 
demned  by  the  intellectual  leaders  of  France  as  sense 
less  and  superstitious.  Hence  we  find  that  from  Abelard 
to  Montaigne,  from  Rabelais  to  Bayle  and  Voltaire,  and 
from  Voltaire  to  Renan,  the  acutest  thinkers  of  that 
country  have  been  sceptics;  and  this  Pyrrhonism  has 
permeated  all  classes  from  the  noble  to  the  peasant. 
When  Napoleon  asked  La  Place  to  account  for  his 
atheism,  he  replied,  "Je  n'ai  pas  besoin  de  Dieu  dans 
mon  systbne."  The  "spirit  of  system,"  as  the  French 
term  it,  has  often  proved,  in  all  departments  of  thought 
and  action,  the  great  bane  of  that  people.  It  is  a  strik 
ing  fact  that  the  French  language  has  no  such  word 
as  spiritual;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  spirituel  and 
esprit  express  what  the  French  deem  the  highest  glory 
of  the  human  mind.  No  highly  civilized  people  of 
modern  times  have  been  so  destitute  of  profound  and 
unchangeable  convictions  as  the  French,  and  of  this 
the  popularity  of  their  sceptical  teachers  has  been  both 
the  effect  and  the  cause. 


FRENCH   TRAITS.  147 

When  Cromwell  and  his  Roundheads  triumphed 
over  the  Cavaliers,  and  swept  away  the  English  church, 
the  Sabbath  was  more  v  strictly  observed  than  before; 
the  soldiers  spent  their  leisure  hours  in  reading  the 
Bible  and  singing  psalms;  stern  laws  were  passed 
against  betting;  the  theatres  were  destroyed,  and  the 
actors  whipt  at  the  cart's  tail;  "in  order  to  reach 
crime  more  surely,  they  persecuted  pleasure."  On  the 
other  hand,  when,  in  the  beginning  of  their  Revolution, 
the  French  demolished  the  Bastile,  they  wrote  on  the 
ruins  these  words:  "Id  I' on  danse"  When  that  acute 
observer  of  men,  Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  visited  Amiens, 
he  was  surprised  and  gratified  to  find  the  cathedral  in 
excellent  condition, —  the  statues  still  keeping  their 
places  in  numerous  niches,  almost  as  perfect  as  when 
first  placed  there  in  the  thirteenth  century;  and  he 
remarks  that  it  is  perhaps  a  mark  of  difierence  between 
French  and  English  character,  that  the  Revolution  in 
the  former  country,  though  all  religious  worship  disap 
peared  before  it,  does  not  seem  to  have  caused  such  vio 
lence  to  ecclesiastical  monuments,  as  the  Reformation 
and  the  reign  of  Puritanism  in  the  latter.  "I  did  not 
see  a  mutilated  shrine,  or  even  a  broken-nosed  image, 
in  the  whole  cathedral.  But,  probably,  the  very  rage 
of  the  English  fanatics  against  idolatrous  tokens,  and 
their  smashing  blows  at  them,  were  tokens  of  a  sincerer 
religious  faith  than  the  French  were  capable  of.  These 
last  did  not  care  enough  about  their  Saviour  to  beat 
down  his  crucified  image ;  and  they  preserved  the  works 
of  sacred  art,  for  the  sake  only  of  what  beauty  there 
was  in  them."  This  lack  of  profound  convictions  is 
well  illustrated  by  the  conduct  of  one  of  the  most 
popular  French  kings,  Henry  IV.,  who,  to  get  posses 
sion  of  the  metropolis,  renounced  his  Protestant  faith 


148  FRENCH  TRAITS. 

and  became  a  Catholic,  saying  that  Paris  was  well 
worth  a  mass, — "11  vaut  un  messe." 

The  French  passion  for  logic  is  well  illustrated  by 
a  comparison  of  Luther's  method  of  reasoning  with 
that  of  John  Calvin.  While  the  Teuton,  though  he 
fights  the  Romish  doctrines  to  the  extremity,  yet  pauses 
when  confronted  by  conclusions  at  which  his  moral 
instincts  are  shocked,  and,  believing  that  the  best- 
reasoned  is  not  always  the  most  reasonable  doctrine,  is 
content  to  be  illogical  rather  than  advocate  doctrines 
from  which  his  whole  soul  recoils,  the  Frenchman  bows 
submissively  to  the  decrees  of  his  logic,  and  accepts 
unflinchingly  any  conclusion,  however  revolting,  to 
which  his  premises  conduct  him.  Closely  connected 
with  this  logical  habit  of  the  French,  is  the  dogmatism 
for  which  they  are  so  notorious.  No  man,  we  are  sure, 
who  ever  argued  with  a  Frenchman,  can  fail  to  sym 
pathize  with  Prof.  Masson  in  his  statement  that  it  is 
hard  to  look  on  and  see  a  Frenchman  generalizing  to 
the  utmost  of  his  national  manner,  when  it  breaks 
loose,  without  a  longing  to  knock  him  down  and  put 
him  in  a  strait- waistcoat.  "There  is  such  a  confidence 
about  him,  such  a  systematizing  rapidity,  such  an 
unhesitating  sureness  about  things,  where  we  Goths  are 
clogged  and  restrained  by  traditional  considerations, 
and  a  sense  of  difficulty  and  complexity!  But  there 
is  something  superb,  nevertheless,  in  the  speculative 
moments  of  a  first-class  French  intellect." 

The  same  qualities  of  mind  which  have  rendered 
the  French  preeminent  as  logicians  and  rhetoricians, 
have  also  made  them  preeminent  as  orators;  for  what 
t«  true  oratory  but  "ignited  logic,"  or  "reason  per 
meated  and  made  red-hot  by  passion?"  The  English 
historian,  Hume,  long  ago  acknowledged,  with  shame, 


\J 

I 


FRENCH  TRAITS.  149 

/ 

that  a  French  orator  pleading  for  the  restoration  of  a 
horse  is  more  eloquent  than  the  orators  of  Great 
Britain  discussing  the  gravest  interests  of  the  nation 
in  the  Houses  of  Parliament.  The  debates  of  the 
French  Assemblies,  Parliaments,  and  States-General, — 
the  eloges  of  her  academies,  the  discourses  of  her 
Judges,  the  sermons  of  her  Massillons,  her  Bossuets, 
and  her  Lacordaires, — nay,  even  the  fiery  declamations 
of  her  Eevolutionary  Clubs,  her  Mirabeaus,  her  Dan- 
tons,  and  her  Robespierres, —  all  proclaim  that,  in  every 
age  and  on  every  platform,  her  orators  have  been  gifted 
with  almost  superhuman  powers  of  rousing  and  swaying 
the  crowds  that  have  hung  upon  their  lips. 

The  same  qualities  of  mind  which  lead  the  French 
to  excel  in  logic  render  inevitable  their  inferiority  in 
poetry,  especially  in  the  highest  forms  of  the  art. 
Unrivaled  in  scientific  precision,  scaling  with  ease  the 
zziest  peaks  of  speculative  philosophy,  they  are  stricken 
ith  impotence  when  they  would  soar  to  the  higher 
regions  of  poetical  or  spiritual  thought.  The  highest 
quality  of  their  tragic,  as  well  as  of  their  epic,  verse  is 
an  exquisite  and  dazzling  rhetoric.  Fancy  it  exhibits 
in  abundance,  but  a  sad  lack  of  imagination.  In  the 
long  roll  of  their  poets,  from  Malherbe  to  Lamartine, 
there  is  not  one  who  has  given  evidence  of  high 
creative  power;  of  that  power  which  peoples  the  ele 
ments  with  fantastic  forms,  and  fills  the  earth  with 
unearthly  heroism,  intellect  and  beauty ;  which  gave  us 
the  "Inferno"  of  Dante  and  Milton's  vision  of  hell, 
Spencer's  palaces  and  haunted  woods,  and  Una  taming 
the  forest  lion  by  her  beauty,  and  those  wondrous 
creations  of  Shakspeare,  Titania  and  Oberon,  Ariel 
and  Puck,  and  the  cloudy  witches  of  "Macbeth." 
has  been  justly  said  of  the  French  tragedy  that  the 


150  FRENCH   TRAITS. 

dramatis  personcs  are  not  individual  agents,  acting  and 
talking  as  their  natures  prompt  them;  they  are  but  so 
many  aspects  of  the  author  himself, — vehicles  for  his 
eloquence,  his  wisdom,  or  his  wit.  When  we  read 
"Henry  IV.,"  we  think  only  of  Falstaff;  when  we  read 
"Andromache,"  we  think  only  of  Kacine.  Another 
fault  of  the  French  drama  is  that  the  personages  leave 
little  to  the  imagination.  They  are  almost  always 
egotists,  who  do,  indeed,  most  thoroughly  "  unpack  their 
souls  with  words,"  but  who,  conveying  in  measured 
speech  feelings  which  should  find  but  broken  utterance, 
fail  to  touch  our  sympathies.  Hence,  neither  in  the 
literature  of  the  French,  nor  in  their  familiar  talk,  do 
we  meet  with  those  ever-recurring  allusions  to  the 
fictitious  characters  of  the  national  stage  which  we 
meet  with  in  the  conversation  and  literature  of  Eng 
land.  Sir  Toby  Belch,  and  Shallow,  and  Dogberry, 
Uncle  Toby,  Tom  Jones,  Pickwick,  Micawber,  and 
Becky  Sharp,  are  as  real  to  us  as  any  beings  we  jostle 
against  in  the  street;  but  the  kings  and  sages,  the 
lackeys  and  chambermaids  of  the  classical  French 
theatre,  are  all  "graduates  of  the  Cartesian  academy, — 
reasoners  from  whom,  indeed,  you  learn  no  fallacies, 
but  associates  from  whom  you  catch  no  inspiration." 

Though  France  herself  has  loudly  denied,  yet  all 
other  nations  with  one  voice  proclaim  her  inferiority  to 
her  rivals  in  the  realms  of  imaginative  art  What  one 
of  her  acutest  modern  critics  has  said  of  the  Latin 
races  generally  is  doubly  true  of  her.  "The  Latin 
races,"  says  M.  Taine,  "show  a  decided  taste  for  the 
external  and  decorative  aspect  of  things,  for  a  pompous 
display  feeding  the  senses  and  vanity,  for  logical  order, 
outward  symmetry,  and  pleasing  arrangement ;  in  short, 
for  form.  The  Germanic  literatures,  on  the  contrary, 


FKENCH  TRAITS.  151 

are  romantic;  their  principal  source  is  the  Edda,  and 
the  ancient  Sagas  of  the  North;  their  greatest  master 
piece  is  the  drama  of  Shakspeare,  that  is  to  say,  the 
crude  and  complete  representation  of  actual  life,  with 
all  its  atrocious,  ignoble,  and  commonplace  details,  its 
sublime  and  brutal  instincts,  the  entire  outgrowth  of 
human  character  displayed  before  us,  now  in  familiar 
style,  bordering  on  the  trivial,  and  now  poetic  even  to 
lyricism,  incoherent,  excessive,  but  of  incomparable  force, 
and  filling  our  souls  with  the  warm  and  palpitating 
passion  of  which  it  is  the  outcry"  A  French  Homer, 
or  Dante,  or  Cervantes,  or  Goethe,  or  Milton,  would  be 
an  anomaly  such  as  the  world  has  never  seen.  The 
very  language,  moulded  by  the  mental  character  of  a 
people  wanting  depth  of  sensibility  and  grandeur  of 
agination,  is  not  a  vehicle  for  the  highest  species  of 
etry.  It  has  been  justly  said  that,  in  other  cultivated 
guages,  the  form  meets  the  substance  half-way, —  is, 
as  it  were,  on  the  watch  for  it;  so  that  the  man, 
Italian  or  German,  far  from  being  impeded  by  the 
versification  of  his  thoughts,  finds  himself  thereby  fa 
cilitated,  the  metre  embracing  the  poetic  matter  with 
such  closeness  and  alacrity  as  to  encourage  and  accele 
rate  its  production  and  utterance.  On  the  other  hand, 
French  verse,  which  requires  a  delicate  attention  to  the 
metre,  or  the  mechanical  constituent,  affords  little 
scope  for  rhythm,  and  is,  therefore,  a  shackle  rather 
than  a  help  to  the  true  poet.  So  in  music,  sculpture, 
and  painting;  a  French  Beethoven,  Handel,  or  Haydn, 
a  French  Raphael  or  Michael  Angelo,  would  startle  the 
world. 

Again,  the  logical  tastes  of  the  French  explain  the 
national  passion  for  abstract  ideas,  to  the  despotism  of 
which  their  best  writers  admit  that  they  have  always 


152  FRENCH   TRAITS. 

been  a  prey.  Doubtless  this  passion  has  had  its  advan 
tages.  The  habit  of  dealing  largely  in  abstractions 
has  contributed  not  a  little  to  aid  the  French  mind 
in  philosophical  inquiries,  and  we  may  thank  it  for 
making  luminous  the  misty  depths  of  metaphysics. 
Guizot  claims  with  justice  that  science,  properly  so 
called,  has  prospered  more  in  France  than  in  England, 
—  that  political  ideas  in,  the  former  country,  though  less 
practical  than,  toi  the  latter,  have  had  a  grander  eleva 
tion  and  a  more  vigorous  flight.  It  is  unquestionably 
true  that,  in  the  revolutions  of  France,  ideas  have 
almost  invariably  preceded  action;  changes  in  doctrine 
have  preceded  changes  in  institutions;  and,  in  the 
march  of  civilization,  n^ind  has  always  led  the  van. 
An  able  English  writer, —  Mr.  John  Morley,  in  his  late 
work  on  Voltaire, — justly  emphasizes  the  fact  that,  in 
France,  absolutism  in  Church  and  State  fell  before  the 
sinewy  genius  of  stark  reason,  while  in  England  it  fell 
before  a  respect  for  Asocial  convenience,  protesting 
against  monopolies,  Henevolences,  and  ship-money.  In 
France,  he  says,  speculation  had  penetrated  over  the 
whole  field  of  social  inquiry  before  a  single  step  had 
been  taken  towards  application,  while  in  England 
social  principles  were  applied  before  they  received  any 
kind  of  speculative  application.  In  France,  the  most 
effective  enemy  of  the  principles  of  despotism  was  Vol 
taire, — foet,  philosopher,  historian,  and  critic;  in  Eng 
land,  a  ban^pf  homely  squires.  The  same  writer  has 
noted  the  comparative  weakness  of  the  English  aphoris 
tic  literature,  lacking,  as  it  does,  the  psychological  ele 
ment,  which  is  so  marked  a  feature  of  the  French. 
Even  Bacon's  precepts,  acute  and  subtle  as  they  are, 
"refer  rather  to  external  conduct  and  worldly  fortune, 
than  to  the  inner  composition  of  character,  or  to  the 


FRENCH  TEAITS.  153 

'wide,  gray,  lampless  depths'  of  human  destiny."  The 
English  writers,  whether  on  politics  or  philosophy, 
seldom  dig  down  to  the  eternal  granite  of  first  princi 
ples  ;  they  rarely  give  the  fundamental  reason  of  things ; 
they  are  content  to  hug  their  fact,  and  hence  are  as 
noted  for  their  want  of  elevation  of  thought  upon 
theoretical  questions  as  for  their  steady  good  sense  and 
practical  ability.  Taine,  in  hi»  notice  of  Addison, 
bitterly  complains  that  his  morality,  thoroughly  English, 
always  crawls  among  coninmnplaces,  discovering  no 
principles,  making  no  deductions.  "It  is  a  sort  of  com 
mercial  common  sense,"  says  the  French  critic,  "applied 
to  the  interests  of  the  soul ;  a  preacher  here  is  only  an 
economist  in  a  white  tie,  who  treats  conscience  like  food, 
and  refutes  vice  as  a  set  of  prohibitions." 

The  French,  on  the  other  hand,  have  been  engaged  in 
a  perpetual  struggle  to  escape  from,  the-  control  of  facts, 
and  to  substitute  therefor  some  ideal  with  which  facts 
have  had  nothing  to  do.  For  eighty  years  their  thoughts 
have  been  concentrated  on  the  one  purpose  of  finding 
that  "  abstract  perfection  of  government,"  which,  as  an 
English  statesman  has  said,  "is  not  an  object  of  rea 
sonable  pursuit,  because  it  is  not  one  of  possible  attain 
ment;"  yet,  with  a  fair  field  open  to  them,  they  aie 
to-day  no  nearer  the  realization^  of  their  ideala^than  in 
1792.  Ever  ready  to  accept  splendid  phrases  as  a  sub 
stitute  for  plain  sense  and  practical  measures,  they  are 
at  one  time  the  sport  of  any  demagogue  who  can  veil 
his  selfish  ambition  under  the  cant  of  "  pure  ideas,"  and 
at  another  the  victims  of  any  despot  who  may  be 
strong  enough  to  trample  the  Ideologists  and  their 
verbal  science  under  his  feet.  The  commonplaces  of 
politics  in  France,  as  John  Stuart  Mill  has  justly  ob 
served,  are  large  and  sweeping  practical  maxims,  from 


154  FRENCH   TRAITS. 

which,  as  ultimate  premises,  men  reason  downwards  to 
particular  applications,  and  this  they  call  being  logical 
and  consistent.  "For  instance  they  are  perpetually  ar 
guing  that  such  and  such  a  measure  ought  to  be 
adopted,  because  it  is  a  consequence  of  the  principle  on 
which  the  form  of  government  is  founded, —  of  the 
principle  of  legitimacy,  or  the  principle  of  the  sover 
eignty  of  the  people.  To  which  it  may  be  answered 
that,  if  these  be  really  practical  principles,  they  must 
rest  upon  speculative  grounds:  the  sovereignty  of  the 
people  (for  example)  must  be  a  right  foundation  for 
government,  because  a  government  thus  constituted 
tends  to  produce  certain  beneficial  effects.  Inasmuch, 
however,  as  no  government  produces  all  possible  bene 
ficial  effects,  but  all  are  attended  with  more  or  fewer 
inconveniences,  and  since  these  cannot  be  combated  by 
means  drawn  from  the  very  causes  which  produce  them, 
it  would  be  often  a  much  stronger  recommendation  of 
some  practical  arrangement  that  it  does  not  follow  from 
what  is  called  the  general  principle  of  the  government, 
than  that  it  does.  Under  a  government  of  legitimacy, 
the  presumption  is  far  rather  in  favor  of  institutions  of 
a  popular  origin;  and  in  a  democracy,  in  favor  of  ar 
rangements  tending  to  check  the  impetus  of  popular 
will.  The  line  of  argumentation -so  commonly  mistaken 
in  France  for  political  philosophy  tends  to  the  practical 
conclusion  that  we  should  exert  our  utmost  efforts  to 
aggravate,  instead  of  alleviating,  whatever  are  the  char 
acteristic  imperfections  of  the  system  of  institutions 
which  we  prefer,  or  under  which  we  happen  to  live." 
The  French  idealism  in  government  is  well  charac 
terized  by  Burke,  in  his  memorable  sketch  of.  the  Abb6 
Sieyes,  "with  his  nests  of  pigeon-holes  full  of  constitu 
tions,  ready-made,  ticketed,  sorted  and  numbered ;  suited 


FRENCH  TRAITS.  155 

to  every  season  and  to  every  fancy;  some  with  the  top 
of  the  pattern  at  the  bottom,  and  some  with  the  bot 
tom  at  the  top;  some  plain,  some  flowered;  *  *  * 
some  with  directories,  others  without  direction;  some 
with  councils  of  elders,  and  councils  of  youngers,  and 
some  without  any  council  at  all;  *  *  *  so  that  no 
constitution-fancier  may  go  unsuited  from  his  shop." 
Yet  deplorable  as  were  the  final  results  of  the  revolu 
tion  which  Sieyes  and  his  confreres  brought  about,  the 
passage  of  this  Red  Sea  was  honorable  to  the  people, 
even  if  they  did  not  at  once  enter  the  Promised  Land. 
That  a  whole  nation  should  have  been  penetrated  with 
a  passion  for  pure  reason,  and  an  ardent  desire  to  have 
its  prescriptions  triumph,  is  an  extraordinary  fact  when 
W£  consider  how  rarely  pure  reason  moves  the  masses 
of  men.  While  the  French  thus  live  in  a  world  of 
ideas,  the  English,  on  the  other  hand,  have  always 
hated  abstract  thought,  and  looked  with  suspicion  or 
contempt  on  all  endeavors  after  scientific  accuracy  in 
political  questions  or  moral.  Empiric,  experimental, — 
often  blundering,  always  unsystematic, —  to-day  sleeping 
in  contented  apathy,  to-morrow  waking  with  a  panic 
start, —  self-contradictory  and  inconsistent, —  now  growl 
ing  at  the  smallest  hardship,  now  welcoming  the  most 
outrageous  oppression, —  now  overlooking  the  growth  of 
the  most  fearful  evils,  and  anon  watching  the  slightest 
innovations  with  microscopic  vigilance, — at  one  time 
indignant,  almost  infuriated,  if  a  criminal  is  harshly 
treated,  or  a  pauper  poorly  fed,  and  then  contemplating 
with  stoical  indifference  the  wretchedness  of  thousands, 
— they  have  yet  contrived  to  advance  with  giant  strides 
in  the  path  of  material  prosperity,  and  with  every  gene 
ration  to  secure  a  solid  and  lasting  improvement  in 
their  political  condition. 


156  FRENCH  TRAITS. 

The  legislation  of  England  corresponds  to  this  char 
acter  of  the  people.  Selfish  it  may  be.  and  unenlight 
ened;  often  it  betrays  extreme  narrowness  of  vision, 
and  incapacity  for  taking  broad  views ;  but  it  is  always 
practical,  and  free  from  all  that  is  visionary  and  fanci 
ful.  If  the  Frenchman  loves  a  revolution,  it  is  equally 
the  instinct  of  the  Englishman  to  search  for  a  pre 
cedent  With  Bacon,  he  believes  that  "Time  is  the 
best  reformer."  Political  good  sense,  as  Guizot  has  well 
observed,  consists  in  understanding  and  appreciating 
every  fact,  every  force,  and  every  social  element;  and 
in  assigning  to  each  its  proper  place;  and  that  the 
English  have  this  good  sense  is  shown  by  the  fact  that 
in  the  whole  course  of  English  history  no  ancient 
political  element  has  ever  entirely  perished,  nor  any 
new  one  gained  a  total  ascendancy,  that  all  the  forces 
of  society  have  developed  themselves  simultaneously  and 
moved  abreast.  An  English  legislator  prefers  a  very 
little  attainable  good  to  a  vast  amount  that  is  barely 
possible  of  attainment ;  an  acre  in  Middlesex  he  deems 
better  than  a  principality  in  Utopia.  The  House  of 
Commons  is  an  eminently  practical  body;  its  members 
hate  rhetoric,  and  are  fiercely  intolerant  of  abstractions. 
Fine  speeches  they  cough  down ;  but  facts, —  informa 
tion, —  however  awkwardly  communicated,  they  will 
listen  to  with  the  patience  of  Job.  For  all  "bunkum 
talk," — for  all  declamations  about  the  rights  of  man 
and  the  eternal  fitness  of  things, —  for  all  "spread- 
eagleism,"  invocations  of  the  shades  of  Hampden  and 
Sidney,  and  other  such  nonsense, — they  have  an  un 
mitigated  contempt  Many  things  which  an  American 
legislator  would  think  it  necessary  to  prove  by  syllo 
gisms  in  Barbara  or  Celarent,  they  take  for  granted, 
thus  economizing  time  and  lungs.  Acts  of  Parliament 


FRENCH  TRAITS.  157 

are  often  awkwardly  drawn  (and  O'Connell  declared  that 
he  could  drive  a  coach  and  four  through  any  of  those 
passed  in  his  day);  they  are  anything  but  models  of 
style ;  but-  they  generally  hit  the  grievance  between 
wind  and  water.  Hence,  a  French  writer  has  justly 
said  of  England  and  his  own  country:  " L'Angleterre 
veut  le  pratique,  et  s'y  enfonce;  la  France  cherche  I1  idee, 
et  s'y  perd"  Nothing  can  be  more  superb  than  the 
promptness  with  which  the  English  ignore  their  politi 
cal  doctrines  the  moment  they  are  found  to  be  incon 
venient  in  practice.  How  long  was  the  "divine  right 
of  kings"  preached  from  Protestant  pulpits! — yet  the 
moment  Protestant  kings  carried  the  theory  out  into 
practice,  the  genius  of  the  people  as  readily  extem 
porized  a  divine  right  of  regicide  and  revolution.  The 
national  genius  of  England,  it  has  been  well  observed, 
cares  little  for  abstract  liberty,  but  it  will  defend  its 
liberties  to  the  death.  It  cares  little  for  the  Eights  of 
Man,  but  for  the  rights  of  English  man,  it  will  fight 
"till  from  its  bones  the  flesh  be  hacked."* 

Swift  long  ago  said  that  the  Englishman  is  a  politi 
cal  animal,  the  Frenchman  a  social  animal;  and  the 
remark  is  true  to  this  day.  The  French  are  always 
discussing  the  merits  of  different  forms  of  government 
abstractly  considered,  when  it  is  evident  that  every 
form  has  a  relative,  not  an  absolute  value.  Nothing 
is  more  puerile  than  to  discuss  the  theoretical  advan 
tages  of  monarchy,  aristocracy,  or  republicanism.  As 
well  discuss  the  abstract  value  of  the  costumes  worn 
in  different  latitudes.  Their  worth  depends,  of  course, 
on  the  climate.  "All  the  French  constitutions,"  says 
De  Maistre,  "have  been  made  for  man,  when  no  such 
being  exists;  I  have  seen  Frenchmen,  Englishmen, 

*  Edwin  P.  Whipple. 


158  FRENCH   TRAITS. 

but  never  man,  except  in  some  imaginary  cloud- 
land."  Edmund  Burke  was  a  good  type  of  the  English 
mind.  Again  and  again  he  affirms  that,  in  politics, 
we  are  concerned  not  with  barren  rights,  but  with 
duties;  not  with  abstract  truth,  but  with  a  shifting 
expediency.  The  lines  of  morality,  he  contends,  are 
not  like  ideal  lines  of  mathematics.  They  admit  of 
exceptions;  they  demand  modifications.  He  scorns  the 
argument  that  England  has  a  right  to  tax  her  Ameri 
can  Colonies;  "so  has  a  man  a  right  to  shear  a  wolf. 
*  *  This  point  is  'the  great  Serbonian  bog,  betwixt 
Damiata  and  Mount  Casius  old,  where  armies  whole 
have  sunk.'  I  do  not  intend  to  be  overwhelmed  in 
that  bog,  though  in  such  respectable  company.  The 
question  is  not,  whether  you  have  a  right  to  render 
your  people  miserable,  but  whether  it  is  not  your 
interest  to  make  them  happy."  Again,  of  the  distinc 
tions  of  rights,  he  says:  "I  do  not  enter  into  these 
metaphysical  distinctions:  /  hate  the  very  sound  of 
them"  Circumstances,  he  never  tires  of  insisting,  give 
to  every  political  principle  its  distinguishing  color  and 
discriminating  effect. 

Let  us  hope  that  the  time  may  come  when  the  Eng 
lishman  will  prize  ideas  more  in  politics  without  ceasing 
to  be  practical,  and  when  his  mind,  with  a  broader 
hospitality  for  foreign  views,  will  be,  in  the  beautiful 
language  of  Bacon,  "  not  an  island  cut  off  from  other 
men's  lands,  but  a  continent  that  joins  to  them ;"  and 
when  the  Frenchman,  convinced  of  the  fruitlessness  of 
abstract  rights  and  abstract  ideals,  yet  surrendering 
none  of  his  love  of  pure  truth,  shall  recognize  the 
stubbornness  of  facts,  and  cease  to  waste  a  life  of  noble 
purposes,  lofty  ideas,  and  heroic  endurance,  in  abortive 
efforts  to  carry  out  beneficent  schemes  against  an  iron 
antagonism  of  circumstances  and  conditions. 


PLEASANTRY  IN  LITERATURE. 


AN  English  critic,  in  treating  of  the  character  of 
English  literature  at  this  time,  complains  that 
periodical  writing,  which  flourished  so  vigorously  at 
the  beginning  of  this  century,  is  nearly  a  lost  art 
This  kind  of  writing,  he  remarks,  is  to  literature  what 
conversation  is  to  speech;  it  should  not  be  too  per 
sonal,  nor  too  scientific,  nor  two  earnest,  but  a  mixture 
of  all  these,  the  play  of  fancy  over  all  subjects,  light 
ing  up  here  and  there  their  depths,  but  not  grappling 
with  them, —  pouring  itself  abroad,  but  not  contracting 
itself  to  any  too  determinate  aim.  A  fatal  defect  of 
English  periodical  literature  to-day  is  its  excessive 
gravity;  the  impulse  of  the  English  mind  being  almost 
entirely  toward  concentration,  and  earnestness,  and  defi- 
niteness  of  thought.  The  effect  of  this  is  to  quench 
all  life  and  spirit,  as  certainly  as  does  carbonic  acid 
gas.  "Does  laughter  or  light  satire,"  asks  the  critic, 
"ever  ring  through  the  solemn  precincts  of  Macmillan? 
Do  the  apostles  of  the  Fortnightly  ever  introduce  a 
joke  into  their  evangelical  discourses?  Mr.  Frederic 
Harrison,  if  we  remember  right,  attempted  it  some 
little  time  ago;  but  he  did  it  with  so  preternaturally 
a  solemn  tone,  and  with  such  earnestness  of  assevera 
tion  that  he  really  did  not  mean  to  joke  at  all,  that  all 
fear  of  the  risk  that  the  attempt  might  be  repeated 
was  at  once  removed." 


160          PLEASANTRY  IN  LITERATURE. 

The  justice  of  this  criticism  will  be  admitted,  we 
think,  by  all  who  are  familiar  with  the  periodicals  of 
the  old  country.  Nothing  can  be  more  solemn  than 
their  ordinary  tone.  It  is  rarely  that  even  the  ghost 
of  a  joke  haunts  their  pages;  and  when  a  bit  of 
pleasantry  does  stray  in,  it  seems  accidental,  and  as 
much  out  of  place  as  on  a  gravestone  or  in  a  ledger. 
The  periodical  writers  of  to-day  have  plenty  of  intensity 
and  fiery  earnestness,  much  acuteness  of  observation 
and  large  stores  of  knowledge;  but  they  are  heavy  and 
elephantine;  they  lack  flexibility,  litheness,  and  versa 
tility;  and  in  the  power  which  is  so  strikingly  exem 
plified  by  Shakspeare's  fools  of  saying  wise  things  in 
a  sportive  way, —  the  power  so  often  seen  in  Lamb  and 
Hood,  of  conveying  a  deep  philosophical  verity  in  a 
jest,  uniting  the  wildest  merriment  with  the  truest 
pathos  and  the  deepest  wisdom, —  in  short,  in  that 
genial,  lambent  humor,  of  which  Shakspeare  was  the 
Pope  and  Sydney  Smith  the  Chief  Cardinal,  a  humor 
like  summer  sheet-lightning,  that  hurts  nobody,  and 
illuminates  everything  with  soft,  bright  flashes, —  they 
seem  almost  wholly  wanting.  We  must  go  back  half 
a  century  to  the  days  of  Horace  Smith,  Maginn,  and 
Leigh  Hunt,  if  we  would  enjoy  in  English  periodicals 
that  agreeable  trifling  which,  as  Goldsmith  says,  often 
deceives  us  into  instruction.  The  solemnity  of  their 
successors,  which  is  certainly  not  the  mask  of  dull 
ness,  tempts  one  to  cry  out  with  Cicero,  "Civem  meher- 
cule  non  puto  ease  qui  his  t&mporibus  ridere  possit :  on 
my  conscience,  I  believe  we  have  all  forgotten  to  laugh 
in  these  days."  History  is  always  repeating  itself,  and 
we  find  by  Goldsmith's  "Essay  on  the  Present  State 
of  Polite  Learning,"  that  the  same  fault  characterized 
the  literature  of  England  a  hundred  years  ago.  He 


PLEASANTBY   IN   LITERATURE.  161 

complains  bitterly  of  "a  disgusting  solemnity  of  man 
ner"  as  the  besetting  sin  of  the  prose  writers  and 
poets  of  his  day.  The  finest  sentiment  and  the  weigh 
tiest  truth,  he  urges,  may  put  on  a  pleasant  face;  but, 
instead  of  this,  "the  most  trifling  performance  among 
us  now  assumes  all  the  didactic  stiffness  of  wisdom. 
The  most  diminutive  son  of  fame  or  of  famine  has  his 
we  and  his  us,  his  firstly s  and  his  secondly s,  as  methodi 
cal  as  if  bound  in  cowhide  and  closed  in  clasps  of 
brass.  Were  these  monthly  reviews  and  magazines 
frothy,  pert,  or  absurd,  they  might  find  some  pardon; 
but  to  be  dull  and  dronish  is  an  encroachment  on  the 
prerogative  of  a  folio." 

American  literature  is  not  amenable  to  the  charge  of 
excessive  gravity ;  our  newspapers  and  magazines  have 
plenty  of  comic  matter,  only  it  is  apt  to  be  of  a  broad 
and  extravagant  kind.  We  have  professional  wits  and 
humorists  who  furnish  funny  articles  by  the  column, — 
mechanical  jokers,  who  turn  out  jokes  as  the  patent 
bread  manufacturer  turns  out  loaves ;  but  what  we  need 
is,  not  more  wits,  who  can  spin  out  jests  as  a  juggler 
spins  endless  ribbons  from  his  mouth, —  writers  who  can 
make  us  laugh,  and  nothing  more, —  but  those  who  can 
treat  the  gravest  themes  in  a  playful  manner,  intermingle, 
as  did  Pascal  and  Sydney  Smith,  pleasantry  with  logic, 
bind  the  rod  of  the  moralist  with  the  roses  of  the  muse, 
and  hide  with  the  ivy  wreath  the  point  of  the  Thyrsus. 
Can  any  man  doubt  the  inestimable  value  of  such 
writers  to  a  community?  Even  the  coarsest  wit  has 
its  uses.  There  are  men  whose  risibles  can  be  tickled 
by  no  other.  To  laugh  they  must  hear  or  read  some 
thing  "dreadfully  funny," — something  as  irresistibly 
mirth-provoking  as  Sir  Toby's  catch  that  could  "draw 
three  souls  out  of  one  weaver."  Charles  Lamb  tells  of 


162  PLEASANTRY   IN    LITERATURE. 

such  a  man, —  of  such  gravity  that  Newton  might  have 
deduced  from  it  the  law  of  gravitation.  But  the  mass 
of  men  do  not  want  their  pleasantry  in  a  lump,  but  as 
sauce  and  seasoning  to  more  solid  dishes. 

In  the  highest  order  of  wit  there  is  an  essential 
element  of  truthfulness.  The  profounder  the  truth,  the 
keener  and  more  telling  the  wit.  The  true  humorist  is 
no  provoker  of  barren  laughter, —  no  cynic,  heel-biter, 
or  libeller,  who,  because  his  own  cup  of  happiness  has 
been  soured,  is  bent  upon  filling  every  other  man's 
with  gall  and  wormwood, —  but  a  genial,  loving  re 
former.  People  breathe  more  freely  when  such  a  man 
is  "around;"  for  they  know  the  wicked  man  will  fear 
him,  weak  men  will  feel  stronger,  and  quacks  will  no 
longer  have  things  all  their  own  way.  Crises  are  con 
tinually  occurring  in  the  history  of  society  when  it  can 
be  delivered  from  peril  only  by  the  Damascus  blade  of  the 
wit  Evils  creep  in  unawares;  some  good  but  foolish 
man  perpetrates  a  deal  of  nonsense  which  is  tolerated 
and  even  admired  on  account  of  his  goodness,  and  fixed 
as  an  institution  before  its  inconvenience  is  suspected. 
Some  isolated  and  pampered  truth,  detached  from  its 
relations,  weighs  down  society  like  a  nightmare,  till  its 
disproportions  are  shown  up  by  the  wit.  The  cause  of 
good  sense,  virtue,  and  decorum  has  been  indebted 
hardly  more  to  the  orator  and  moralist  than  to  the 
satirist  who  has  set  folly,  crime,  and  impropriety  in  a 
ludicrous  or  hateful  light  The  "roar  of  laughter"  has 
heralded  the  defeat  of  more  errors  than  the  roar  of 
battle.  Woe  to  the  cheat,  the  dunce,  the  wind-bag, 
when  a  great  laugher  is  let  loose  on  the  planet!  Bad 
customs,  which  all  theoretically  condemn,  though  society 
may  still  condone  or  exact  them;  acts  of  wickedness, 
whose  very  daring  secures  them  exceptional  impunity; 


PLEASANTRY  IN   LITERATURE.  163 

all  those  polite  delinquencies  that  shelter  themselves 
under  the  garb  of  decency,  and  that  flourish  most 
rankly  in  the  most  advanced  periods  of  civilization, — 
against  these  it  is  that  the  humorist  hurls  his  shafts, 
and  society  cries  "All  Hail!"  to  its  deliverer. 

"What  moralist  in  old  Rome  did  so  much  to  repress 
the  vulgar  insolence  of  newly-acquired  wealth,  —  the 
airs  and  pomposity  of  the  parvenue,  —  as  Horace  when 
he  bade  him  take  note,  as  he  strutted  along  the  street, 

Ut  ora  vertat  hue  et  hue  euntium 
Liberrima  indignatio? 

Did  any  Aristippus,  with  his  bran-bread  and  saw 
dust  theories  of  diet,  do  so  much  to  lessen  the  luxury 
of  his  age  as  the  sarcasm  that  lurks  beneath  the  poet's 
bombastic  account  of  a  banquet,  or  the  epic  grandilo 
quence  of  the  monster  turbot?  Would  Luther's  battle- 
axe,  mighty  though  it  was,  have  struck  so  fatal  blows 
at  Popery,  had  it  not  been  preceded  by  the  keen  arrows 
of  Erasmus?  Or  would  not  the  monks  and  priests 
have  made  a  far  more  desperate  resistance  had  not  the 
EpistolcB  Obscurorum  Virorum  keenly  satirized  their 
vices  before  they  could  be  denounced, — been  widely  circu 
lated,  and  prepared  the  way  for  the  Reformers?  Might 
not  the  Jesuits  have  defied  the  club  of  Pascal's  logic, 
had  he  not  also  showered  upon  them  the  feathered 
shafts  of  his  ridicule?  Who  can  doubt  that  the  bril 
liant  and  sparkling  satirist  of  the  Dunciad,  the  "little 
wasp  of  Twickenham,"  vengeful  and  venomous  though 
he  was,  did  more  to  provoke  a  feeling  of  revolt  and 
contempt  against  the  vices  of  his  time  than  all  the 
dictates  of  morality,  or  the  denunciations  of  the  pul 
pit?  How  many  match-making  mothers  have  paused 
as  they  have  followed  the  miserable  episodes  of  Ho- 


164  PLEASANTRY   IN   LITERATURE. 

garth's  "Marriage  a  la  Mode!"  And  how  many  a 
would-be  fine  gentleman  in  our  own  day,  tickled  with 
vanity  and  inclined  to  vulgar  ostentation,  has  been 
impelled,  by  the  keen  irony  of  Thackeray,  to  avoid  the 
"sorrows  of  gentility,"  and,  by  living  inside  of  his 
income,  to  keep  out  of  the  "Book  of  Snobs!" 

The  yeoman  service  which  that  prince  of  wits, 
Sydney  Smith,  did  to  Catholic  Emancipation,  by  his 
"Letters  to  Peter  Plymley,"  is  familiar  to  all.  By 
what  syllogisms  in  Barbara  or  Celarent  could  he  have 
so  effectually  annihilated  the  influence  of  Percival  and 
Canning,  as  by  declaring  of  the  latter  that  "when  he 
is  jocular,  he  is  strong;  when  he  is  serious,  he  is  like 
Samson  in  a  wig;"  and  by  holding  up  the  former  to 
ridicule  as  the  projector  of  "the  great  plan  of  con 
quest  and  constipation," — as  the  statesman  "in  whose 
mind  was  first  engendered  the  idea  of  destroying  the 
pride  and  plasters  of  France," —  and  "  who  would  bring 
the  French  to  reason  by  keeping  them  without  rhubarb, 
and  exhibit  to  mankind  the  awful  spectacle  of  a  nation 
deprived  of  neutral  salts?"  It  was  but  yesterday  that 
duelling  was  prevalent  throughout  the  civilized  world. 
In  vain  the  pulpit  thundered,  and  the  press  denounced 
the  practice;  Christian  men  still  continued  to  expose 
their  lives  for  the  merest  trifle,  to  the  accident  of  a 
lucky  shot.  It  was  only  when  "the  code  of  honor" 
was  made  the  butt  of  ridicule,  and  so  became  contempti 
ble  in  the  eyes  of  those  who  were  its  slaves,  and  who 
were  more  sensitive  to  sarcasm  than  to  logic,  that  they 
ceased  to  make  their  bodies  targets  for  the  bullets  of 
any  bully  or  braggart  who  chose  to  consider  himself 
aggrieved,  or  whom  a  craven  fear  of  public  opinion 
impelled  to  send  a  challenge.  But  we  need  not  cross 
the  Atlantic  for  illustrations.  Who  has  forgotten  the 


PLEASANTRY  IN   LITERATURE.  165 

powerful  aid  rendered  to  the  North  in  our  late  civil 
war  by  "Petroleum  V.  Nasby,"  of  the  "Confederate 
Cross-Roads."  Though  he  assumed  the  cap  and  bells, 
Rabelais  was  not  more  terribly  in  earnest.  As  one  of 
his  admirers  has  well  said,  whenever  his  loud  and  often 
boisterous  laugh  was  heard,  there  was  sure  to  be  a 
funeral  procession  in  some  dark  corner  of  the  land. 
Like  the  grave-digger  in  "  Hamlet,"  he  made  fun,  but 
he  kept  digging  graves  all  the  while.  His  rib-tickling 
irony  cheered  the  patriots,  as  well  as  confounded  the 
Copperheads  and  the  Rebels.  President  Lincoln  found 
relief  from  the  wearing  anxieties  of  office  in  reading 
the  letters  of  this  Toledo  blade.  Grant  declared  that 
he  "couldn't  get  through  a  Sunday  without  one;"  and 
Secretary  Boutwell  publicly  attributed  the  overthrow 
of  the  Rebels  to  three  great  forces, —  the  Army  and 
Navy,  the  Republican  Party,  and  the  Letters  of  Petro 
leum  V.  Nasby. 

What  was  the  secret  of  Dr.  Nott's  power  over  bad 
men, — what,  but  his  contagious,  resistless  humor?  He 
would  disperse  any  mob  sooner  than  the  Mayor  with 
his  drilled  police.  He  would  meet  them  armed  with 
clubs,  looking  lean,  hungry  and  defiant.  In  five  min 
utes  they  would  be  seen  dropping  their  bludgeons,  and 
dispersing  in  roars  of  laughter. 

Then  let  us  laugh.  It  is  the  cheapest  luxury  man 
enjoys,  and,  as  Charles  Lamb  says,  "is  worth  a  hundred 
groans  in  any  state  of  the  market."  It  stirs  up  the 
blood,  expands  the  chest,  electrifies  the  nerves,  clears 
away  the  cobwebs  from  the  brain,  and  gives  the  whole 
system  a  shock  to  which  the  voltaic  pile  is  as  nothing. 
Nay,  its  delicious  alchemy  converts  even  tears  into  the 
quintessence  of  merriment,  and  makes  wrinkles  them 
selves  expressive  of  youth  and  frolic.  Americans,  espe- 


166  PLEASANTRY   IN   LITERATURE. 

cially,  need  to  laugh,  and  to  laugh  often.  The  demand 
for  humor  is  great  among  us,  and  the  supply  is  not 
equal  to  the  demand.  Most  of  us  are  overworked,  and 
the  excess  of  work  renders  imperative  the  need  of  in 
creased  play  to  balance  it.  Nature  prompts  the  over 
worked  man  to  seek  an  atmosphere  of  mirth  as  truly  as 
she  sends  the  deer  to  the  saltlick.  Wealth,  ingenuity, 
worldly  wisdom,  and  popular  information  abound  among 
us;  but  our  social  salad  lacks  the  oil  of  joy;  and  hence 
we  need  co  cultivate  good  humor,  as  De  Quincey  comi 
cally  inculcates  murder,  as  "one  of  the  fine  arts." 

We  are  aware  that  there  are  some  owlish  and  emi 
nently  respectable  people  who  are  averse  to  merriment 
and  to  the  pleasantry  that  provokes  it.  But  what  a  world 
this  would  be  without  laughter!  To  what  a  dreary  com 
plexion  should  we  all  come,  were  all  fun  and  cachinnation 
expunged  from  our  solemn  and  scientific  planet!  Care 
would  soon  overwhelm  us,  the  heart  would  corrode,  life 
would  be  all  relievo,  and  no  alto;  the  Eiver  of  Life 
would  be  like  the  Lake  of  the  Dismal  Swamp;  we 
should  begin  our  days  with  a  sigh,  and  end  them  with 
a  groan ;  while  cadaverous  faces,  and  words  to  the  tune 
of  "The  Dead  March  in  Saul,"  would  make  up  the 
whole  interlude  of  existence.  Hume,  the  historian,  in 
examining  a  French  manuscript  containing  accounts 
of  some  private  disbursements  of  King  Edward  II.  of 
England,  found  among  others  one  article  of  a  crown 
paid  to  somebody  for  making  the  King  laugh.  Could 
His  Majesty  have  made  a  wiser  investment?  "The 
most  utterly  lost  of  all  days,"  says  Chamfort,  "is  that 
in  which  you  have  not  once  laughed."  Even  that 
grimmest  and  most  saturnine  of  wits,  Dean  Swift,  calls 
laughter  "the  most  innocent  of  diuretics."  Let  us, 
then,  indulge  freely  in  the  rationality  of  laughter.  In 


PLEASANTRY   IK   LITERATURE.  167 

the  words  of  the  witty  Maginn,  let  our  Christmas  laugh 
echo  till  Saint  Valentine's  day ;  our  laugh  of  Saint  Val 
entine  till  the  1st  of  April;  our  April  humor  till  May 
day,  and  our  May  merriment  till  Midsummer.  And  so 
let  us  go  on,  from  holiday  to  holiday,  philosophers  in 
laughter,  at  least,  till,  at  the  expiration  of  our  century, 
we  die  the  death  of  old  Democritus;  cheerful,  hopeful, 
and  contented ;  surrounded  by  many  a  friend,  but  with 
out  an  enemy;  and  remembered  principally  because  we 
have  never,  either  in  life  or  death,  given  pain  for  a 
moment  to  any  being  that  lived. 


OUR  DUAL  LIVES. 


AMONG  the  oddities  and  eccentricities  of  human 
nature  there  are  few  more  singular  than  the  dispo 
sition  which  we  often  see  in  men  who  have  been  emi 
nently  successful  in  any  calling  to  conceive  themselves 
to  have  been  designed  by  nature  for  something  quite 
different  There  is  hardly  a  pursuit  or  profession  in 
which  some  persons  may  not  be  found,  who,  though 
highly  skilled  and  distinguished  therein,  yet  fancy  that 
they  could  have  attained  far  higher  distinction  had 
they  followed  some  other  walk  in  life  more  congenial 
to  their  tastes.  It  is  said  that  Canova,  whenever  the 
conversation  turned  upon  sculpture,  would  fetch  a 
freshly-bedaubed  tablet,  and  exhibit  it  with  a  smile  of 
paternal  pride.  The  witty  Douglas  Jerrold  wanted  to 
write  a  treatise  on  natural  philosophy;  the  French 
painter,  Girardet,  valued  his  wretched  verses  far  more 
highly  than  his  magnificent  pictures;  and  Dr.  Thomas 
Brown,  in  thinking  of  his  own  tasteless  effusions,  doubt 
less  often  exclaimed,  "  How  sweet  an  Ovid  in  a  meta 
physician  lost"  David  regretted  having  spent  his  life 
in  painting ;  it  was  diplomacy,  he  thought,  that  he 
ought  to  have  studied,  having  been  intended  by  nature 
to  change  the  politics  of  two  hemispheres.  The  cele 
brated  comic  actor,  Listen,  who  nightly  convulsed  Lon 
don  with  laughter  by  his  delineations,  and  whose  face 
was  one  that  a  sensitive  sculptor  would  almost  faint  to 


OUR  DUAL  LIVES.  169 

look  upon,  believed  that  tragedy  was  his  true  vocation, 
and  that  nothing  prevented  him  from  shining  therein  but 
his  droll  and  mirth-provoking  visage.  Another  London 
comedian,  equally  famous,  believed  himself  fitted  to 
dazzle  as  Romeo,  but  for  the  accident  of  a  weak  leg; 
and  an  Irish  comedian,  whose  face,  figure,  manner, 
and  every  motion  were  irresistibly  ludicrous  and  provo 
cative  of  merriment, —  rendering  it  impossible  for  him 
to  wink  or  stir  a  muscle  without  convulsing  the  spec 
tators  with  laughter, — yet  believed  most  firmly  that 
high  tragic  parts  were  his  forte,  and  that  while  he  was 
tickling  the  sides  of  his  audience  as  an  Irish  bog- 
trotter  or  servant,  he  should  have  been  exciting  their 
hate  as  ShylocTc,  their  tears  as  Werner,  or  their  horror 
as  Macbeth. 

Even  when  they  do  not  altogether  believe  that  they 
have  missed  their  true  vocation,  men  of  genius  often 
fancy  themselves  strongest  in  those  departments  of 
intellectual  effort  where  they  are  the  weakest,  and  waste 
precious  hours  upon  some  art  in  which  they  are  doomed 
to  lasting  mediocrity.  Montaigne  calls  attention  to  the 
fact  that  Julius  Caesar  is  at  vast  pains  to  make  us 
understand  his  inventions  in  bridge-building  and  war- 
engines,  while  he  is  very  succinct  and  reserved  in 
speaking  of  the  rules  of  his  profession  and  of  his  mili 
tary  exploits.  Sir  Walter  Scott  believed  himself  designed 
by  nature  for  a  soldier,  and  that  his  lameness  spoiled 
an  excellent  life-guardsman.  Milton  preferred  "Para 
dise  Regained"  to  any  of  his  other  poems;  and  Shak- 
speare,  indifferent  to  the  fate  of  his  dramas,  believed 
that  his  sonnets  would  immortalize  himself;  and  the 
mysterious  "  W.  H."  Byron  was  prouder  of  his  "  Hints 
from  Horace "  than  of  "  Childe  Harold ;"  and  Campbell 
was  distressed  at  the  thought  of  his  tombstone  being 


170  OUR   DUAL  LIVES. 

inscribed  to  the  memory  of  the  author  of  "  The  Pleas 
ures  of  Hope,"  when  "  Gertrude  of  Wyoming "  was  his 
masterpiece.  Goethe  used  repeatedly  to  say:  "As  for 
what  I  have  done  as  a  poet,  I  take  no  pride  in  it 
whatever.  But  that  in  my  century  /  am  the  only  per 
son  who  knows  the  truth  in  the  difficult  science  of  colors, 
— of  that,  I  say,  I  am  not  a  little  proud.  There  I 
have  a  consciousness  of  superiority  to  many."  Not  less 
naive  was  the  reply  of  Michael  Angelo,  who,  when  he 
proposed  to  fortify  his  native  city,  and  was  told  to 
stick  to  his  painting  and  sculpture,  observed  that  these 
were  his  recreations, —  what  he  really  understood  was 
architecture. 

Perhaps  no  mistake  touching  our  fellow-men  is  more 
common  than  that  of  judging  of  the  ordinary  feelings 
and  habitual  disposition  of  a  writer  by  the  tone  of  his 
productions.  Especially  is  this  true  of  wits  and  humor 
ists,  who,  though  able  to  make  others  merry,  have  them 
selves  often  been  profoundly  melancholy.  No  doubt 
there  is  a  thrill  of  pleasure,  rising  even  to  ecstacy,  at 
the  first  flashing  of  a  droll  idea  on  the  mental  horizon ; 
but  the  elaboration  of  it  in  writing  is  often  to  the  last 
degree  irksome  and  painful.  Many  a  rib-tickling  pro 
duction,  which  is  a  source  of  exquisite  enjoyment  to 
the  public,  has  been  produced  in  an  agony  of  mental 
misery,  at  the  expense  of  the  author's  happiness  and 
of  his  life.  The  gayest  and  most  sparkling  essays  are 
often  but  the  result  of  a  temporary  successful  effort 
to  escape  from  the  gloom  of  mental  depression,  or 
from  the  pangs  of  a  gangrened  and  festered  spirit. 
No  others  are  so  keenly  alive  to  the  enjoyment  of 
the  ludicrous  as  they  whose  ordinary  feelings  partake 
deeply  of  the  tragic:  they  fly  to  it  as  an  escape  from 
the  monotonous  gloom  and  wearing  agony  of  their 


OUR  DUAL  LIVES.  171 

habitual  thoughts;  they  cling  to  it  with  feverish  fond 
ness,  from  a  melancholy  anticipation  of  the  gloom  which 
will  be  felt  in  contrast  at  the  departure  of  mirth.  In 
such  circumstances  jokes  may  be  said  to  be  coined 
from  the  heart's  blood,  —  mirth  to  be  distilled  from 
tears.  Who,  that  is  not  familiar  with  Cowper's  biogra 
phy,  would  dream  of  the  circumstances  under  which 
"  John  Gilpin  "  was  written  ?  The  poet  seems  bubbling 
over  with  animal  spirits;  yet,  in  the  very  hour  when 
he  threw  off  this  piece  so  steeped  in  fun,  he  was  in  a 
state  of  mental  gloom  bordering  on  madness.  There  is, 
indeed,  hardly  a  verse  of  his  which  he  did  not  compose 
for  the  same  reason  that  he  painted  or  planed,  made 
rabbit-hutches  or  tamed  hares,  to  get  rid  of  his  melan 
choly  thoughts.  "I  wonder,"  says  the  poet  in  a  letter 
to  Mr.  Newton,  "that  a  sportive  thought  should  ever 
knock  at  the  door  of  my  intellect,  and  still  more  that 
it  should  gain  admittance.  It  is  as  if  Harlequin  should 
intrude  himself  into  the  gloomy  chamber  where  a  corpse 
is  deposited  in  state.  *  *  *  But  the  mind,  long 
wearied  with  the  sameness  of  a  dull,  dreary  prospect, 
will  gladly  fix  its  eyes  on  anything  that  may  make  a 
little  variety  in  its  contemplations,  though  it  were  but 
a  kitten  playing  with  her  tail."  It  may  be  doubted 
whether  Shakspeare,  in  his  youth  at  least,  lived  so  con 
stantly  in  the  sunshine  as  we  are  apt  to  imagine.  Many 
of  his  sonnets  breathe  the  spirit  of  hopeless  despair. 
He  laments  his  lameness;  deplores  the  necessity  of 
"  goring  his  own  thoughts,"  and  making  himself  "  a 
motley  to  the  view;"  anticipates  a  "coffined  doom;" 
and  utters  a  profoundly  pathetic  cry  for  "  restful  death." 
There  have  been  writers  who  seemed  to  possess  the 
power  to  charm  only  in  proportion  to  the  acuteness 
and  intensity  of  their  own  sufferings;  the  beauty  and 


172  OUR  DUAL  LIVES. 

power  of  whose  minds  were  displayed  only  while  the 
work  of  death  was  going  on  within  their  diseased 
frames,  —  like  the  dolphin,  the  richness  and  splendor 
of  whose  colors  are  exhibited  only  while  the  unhappy 
fish  lies  panting  on  the  deck,  and  the  blood  swiftly 
courses  its  veins  amid  the  throes  and  agonies  of  death. 
It  has  been  truly  remarked  of  Butler,  the  satirist  of 
the  Puritans,  that  nothing  remains  of  his  private  his 
tory  but  the  record  of  his  miseries;  and  Swift,  we  are 
told,  was  never  known  to  smile.  It  is  well  known  that 
the  fantastic  doggerel  of  the  latter  was  composed  while 
he  was  the  prey  of  misanthropy  and  discontent.  The 
last  nine  years  of  his  life  were  dragged  out  in  intense 
mental  and  bodily  suffering,  and  he  died,  as  he  had 
feared  and '  half  predicted,  "  in  a  rage,  like  a  poisoned 
rat  in  a  hole."  Gay,  the  careless  laugher  of  "  The  Beg 
gar's  Opera,"  lived  a  sad  life,  and  wrote  for  his  own 
epitaph  these  saddest  of  lines: 

Life  is  a  jest,  and  all  things  show  it ; 
I  thought  so  once,  but  now  I  know  it. 

When  Goldsmith  was  composing  one  of  his  merriest 
comedies,  he  was  harassed  by  debt,  and  wrote  to  a 
friend:  "Here  I  am,  studying  jests  with  a  most  tragi 
cal  countenance."  It  was  in  the  chill  and  desolation 
of  a  fireless  garret  that  this  vagabond  of  literature 
sketched  his  bright  pictures  of  domestic  happiness. 
The  gayest  flights  of  "Don  Juan"  originated  in  the 
gloomiest  and  most  desolate  hours  of  the  morbidly- 
sensitive  Byron,  when,  like  his  own  Manfred,  he  "felt 
his  soul  was  ebbing  from  him,"  and  his  body,  "limb 
by  limb,  destroyed."  Burns  confessed,  in  one  of  his 
letters,  that  his  design  in  seeking  society  was  to  fly 
from  constitutional  melancholy;  but  they  who  were 


OUR   DUAL   LIVES.  173 

fascinated  by  his  wit,  or  entranced  by  his  eloquence, 
little  thought  that  all  his  liveliness,  keenness  and 
energy  sprang  less  from  an  anxiety  for  display  than 
from  a  horror  of  solitude.  "Even  in  the  hour  of 
social  mirth,"  he  tells  us,  "my  gayety  is  the  mad 
ness  of  an  intoxicated  criminal  under  the  hands  of 
the  executioner."  As  the  nightingale  is  said  to  sing 
the  most  sweetly  with  the  thorn  in  its  breast,  so  the 
most  exquisite  songs  of  poets  have  often  been  prompted 
by  the  acuteness  of  their  personal  sufferings.  As  Shel 
ley  says,  they  are 

cradled  into  poetry  by  wrong; 

They  learn  in  suffering  what  they  teach  in  song. 

The  most  facetious  of  all  Charles  Lamb's  letters 
was  written  to  Bernard  Barton  in  a  fit  of  the  deepest 
melancholy.  In  his  correspondence  he  often  alludes  to 
his  exquisite  "Elia"  and  other  essays  as  "wrung  from 
him  with  slow  pain."  "I  wish  all  the  ink  in  the  ocean 
dried  up,"  he  says,  "and  would  listen  to  the  quills 
shrivelling  up  in  the  candle-flame  like  parching  mar 
tyrs."  Blanchard  wrote  the  first  three,  and  the  best,  of 
the  inimitable  "Caudle  Lectures"  while  tortured  by  the 
gripe  of  poverty,  and  when  his  wife  lay  at  the  point  of 
death, —  a  blow  the  poignancy  of  which  led  him  to  put 
an  end  to  his  own  life.  Cervantes,  Molie"re,  and  nearly 
all  of  the  most  celebrated  humorists,  were  melancholy 
men;  and  their  dismal  experiences  remind  us  of  the 
comic  actor  who,  having  split  the  sides  of  the  Parisians 
with  his  fun,  asked  a  physician  to  proscribe  for  his 
profound  melancholy,  and  was  told  there  was  but  one 
cure, —  to  go  and  see  Carlini.  "  Alas !"  was  the  reply,  "  I 
am  Carlini."  We  all  know  the  story  of  Thomas  Hood; 
how  he  got  his  bread  by  puns;  paid  his  butcher  and 


174  OUR   DUAL   LIVES. 

baker  by  painfully-elaborated  jocosities, —  of  all  busi 
nesses  the  most  dreary,  and  the  one  which  gives  the 
most  ghastly  aspect  to  human  life.  In  him  it  was  the 
thinnest  of  partitions  that  divided  tears  from  laughter; 
his  whole  life  was  an  illustration  of  the  truth  that 

There's  not  a  string  attuned  to  mirth 
Has  not  ita  chord  of  melancholy. 

In  short,  the  "quips,  and  cranks,  and  wanton  wiles" 
of  an  author's  writings  afford  but  a  doubtful  key  to 
the  state  of  his  feelings;  and  it  would  seem  as  if,  in 
almost  every  case,  the  delicious  humor  which  so  charms 
us  in  his  pages  gushes  from  him  like  the  sweet  gum 
from  a  wounded  tree. 

Another  of  the  remarkable  contrasts  between  the 
outer  and  the  inner  man  is  the  discrepancy  we  often 
notice  between  the  profession  one  follows  in  public, 
and  the  private  tastes  which  he  cultivates  and  cherishes. 
"Blessed  is  the  man  that  hath  a  hobby!"  said  Lord 
Brougham;  and  Brougham  himself,  who  ranged  all  the 
fields  of  politics,  philosophy,  science,  and  literature, — 
who  had  so  many  hobbies  that  "Science  was  his  forte, 
and  omniscience  his  foible," — was  a  burlesque  of  his 
own  doctrine.  Could  we  know  how  every  man  of  our 
acquaintance,  who  has  a  regular  calling  by  which  he 
pays  his  butcher's  bills,  passes  his  leisure-hours,  we 
should  often  be  surprised  to  find  how  slight  a  clue 
one's  public  character  affords  to  the  profounder  sympa 
thies  of  his  nature.  Some  of  the  most  drudging,  busi 
ness-devoted  men  in  the  community, —  who  apparently 
think  and  talk  of  nothing  but  "two  per  cent,  a 
month"  or  "comer  lots,"— we  should  find  in  private 
indulging  in  some  taste,  such  as  a  love  for  pictures  or 
belles-lettres,  which  argues  a  totally  different  character 


OUR   DUAL  LIVES.  175 

beneath  the  surface.  A  merchant  who  is  noted  for  the 
keenness  with  which  he  pursues  every  means  of  money- 
making,  and  the  inflexibility  with  which  he  insists  on 
the  last  cent  of  his  dues,  is  found  to  be  overflowing 
with  zeal  for  the  cause  of  temperance,  education,  mis 
sions,  or  some  other  of  a  kindred  character,  for  which 
he  is  ready  to  pour  out  his  money  like  water. 

How  often  the  plodding,  black-letter  lav/yer,  who 
seemingly  has  not  a  thought  beyond  the  hard,  dry 
technicalities  of  Coke  or  Littleton,  is  known  by  his 
bosom-friends  to  be  an  ardent  lover  of  literature,  and 
to  spend  his  leisure-hours  in  drawing  from  the  "pure 
wells  of  English  undefiled,"  or  in  distilling  the  sweet 
ness  of  the  Greek  and  Roman  spring!  Perhaps  this 
"gowned  vulture,"  as  old  Burton  would  term  him, 
whom  the  million  suppose  to  be  perpetually  busy  in 
exasperating  the  bickerings  of  Doe  and  Roe,  and  blow 
ing  up  every  little  spark  of  a  dispute  into  a  blazing 
quarrel,  is  deeply  interested  in  some  philanthropic 
movement, —  some  Christian-Association,  or  Freedmen's- 
Aid-Commission,  or  Orphan-Asylum,  or  Public-Library 
movement, —  and  divides  his  leisure-time  between  the 
study  of  his  favorite  authors  and  the  preparation  of 
elaborate  articles  on  the  enterprise  for  the  reviews, 
magazines,  or  newspapers.  Perhaps  his  hobby  is  Greek- 
Testament  translation,  and,  after  toiling  all  day  to  con 
vict  a  criminal,  he  flies  on  the  wings  of  steam  to  some 
snuggery  in  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  where,  sur 
rounded  by  copies  of  the  Sinaitic  and  other  manu 
scripts,  and  all  the  English,  German,  and  American 
Commentaries,  piled  up  on  the  floor  and  table,  he  may 
detect  some  false  rendering  of  a  Greek  particle,  or  hit 
upon  a  happier  reading  of  an  aorist,  which  shall  pro 
voke  a  louder /'Eureka!"  than  the  baffling  of  a  cut- 


17<J  OUR   DUAL   LIVES. 

throat's  lawyers.  Perhaps  this  "  hired  master  of  tongue- 
fence"  is  a  picture-fancier,  who  is  profoundly  impressed 
with  the  glories  of  art,  and  is  learned  in  oils  and  var 
nishes;  who  drops  often  into  the  auction-room,  and 
nods  his  head  to  the  knight  of  the  hammer,  at  the 
cost  of  fifty  dollars  a  nod;  who  descants  by  the  hour 
on  his  Bierstadt,  or  his  Vandyke,  of  whom  "an  un 
doubted  original"  hangs  in  his  parlor,  sups  with  a 
Holbein  or  a  Titian  confronting  him  on  the  wall,  and 
dreams  all  night  of  the  mysterious  gloom  of  Rem 
brandt,  the  savageness  of  Salvator  Rosa,  and  the  "cor- 
regiosity  of  Correggio."  Perhaps,  again,  his  hobby  is 
autographs, —  old  letters,  scraps  of  paper,  fly-leaves  from 
books,  and  bits  of  franked  envelopes, —  which  he  keeps 
under  lock  and  key,  lest  Bridget  should  take  them  for 
litter,  and  consign  them  to  the  fire^or  convert  them 
into  lamp-lighters.  Or,  lastly,  he  may  be  passionately 
fond  of  music;  giving  private  concerts  in  his  own 
parlor;  often  scraping  away  himself  on  the  violin,  or 
puffing  at  the  trombone,  or  thumping  on  the  piano; 
and  dinning  the  ears  of  his  friends  with  eternal  praises 
of  Mozart,  and  Mendelssohn,  and  Beethoven, —  of  Mar 
tini  and  Rhigini,  and  all  the  others  that  end  in  "ini," 
— and  fifty  more  whom  to  pronounce  were  to  dislocate 
one's  jaws,  but  whom  to  hear  is  Elysium. 

There  are  few  persons  who  are  not  familiar  with 
more  or  fewer  instances  of  men  who  have  thus  an 
inner  self  strongly  contrasting  with  their  outer  self, — 
something  nobler  or  meaner  than  the  visible  man, — 
something  which  makes  him  think  more  highly  of 
himself  than  the  world  thinks  of  him,  or  which,  if 
known,  would  make  him  the  target  of  universal  ridi 
cule  and  scorn.  Some  years  ago,  one  of  the  best 
entomologists  in  Chicago  was  a  common  workman  in 


OUR   DUAL  LIVES.  177 

a  cabinet-maker's  shop.  To-day,  one  of  the  profoundest 
and  best-read  metaphysicians  in  the  same  city  is  a 
German  educated  in  the  best  German  and  Scotch  uni 
versities,  who  earns  the  leisure  which  he  spends  in 
brooding  over  the  mysteries  of  our  spiritual  being  by 
selling,  as  a  clerk,  coats,  vests,  and  trowsers  for  the 
physical  man.  The  most  extensive  book-publisher  in 
Great  Britain,  whose  publications  would  of  themselves 
form  a  large  private  library,  we  know  to  be  a  rose- 
fancier,  who  has  in  his  garden,  just  out  of  London, 
fifteen  hundred  distinct  varieties  of  roses,  for  many 
of  which  he  has  sent  to  the  farthest  corners  of  the 
globe,  and  paid  fabulous  sums.  A  single  rose-tree  has 
cost  him  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars.  When  one 
visits  a  public  office,  he  is  often  greatly  struck  by  the 
mechanical  regularity  of  the  scene.  The  officials  look 
like  automata,  or  pieces  of  clock-work  wound  up  to  do 
certain  duties;  and  he  can  scarcely  persuade  himself 
that  they  have  under  their  waistcoats  hearts  beating 
with  the  same  passions  as  his  own.  Yet,  perhaps,  there 
is  not  one  of  these  stiff,  formal -looking  beings,  or  cast- 
iron  men,  who  does  not  indulge  in  some  curious,  out- 
of-the-way  taste  or  hobby  in  his  ex-officio  character. 
Some  years  ago  there  was  in  Dundee,  Scotland,  a 
servant  to  the  Magistrates,  wearing  their  livery,  who 
was  by  far  the  most  learned  man  in  town.  There  was 
about  the  same  time  a  butcher  in  the  Edinburgh  mar 
ket  who  spent  all  his  spare  time  in  reading  books  of  a 
profoundly  philosophical  character.  Hobbes,  Hutcheson, 
Stewart,  and  Brown  were  his  constant  companions.  In 
the  same  metropolis  there  was  a  porter  who  was  remark 
able  for  the  zeal  with  which,  with  self-made  machinery, 
he  pursued  experiments  in  electricity;  and  in  a  public 
office  might  have  been  seen  a  dull-looking  man,  who, 


178  OUB  DUAL  LIVES. 

though  seemingly  devoted  only  to  its  dry  details,  was  a 
most  profound  student  of  the  etymologies  of  European 
and  Eastern  languages,  and  wrote  little  tracts  on  ob 
scure  texts,  which  attracted  the  attention  of  English 
Bishops. 

The  greatest  monarchs  have  not  always  been  happi 
est  when  wearing  the  crown.  One  of  the  Kings  of 
Macedon  loved  better  to  make  lanterns  than  to  wield 
the  sceptre;  and  a  King  of  France  found  his  chief 
delight  in  making  locks.  Domitian  spent  houYs  in 
catching  flies.  The  French  statesman,  Turgot,  found  a 
solace  for  the  loss  of  office  in  the  study  of  physical 
science,  and  cheated  the  gout  of  its  torture  by  making 
Latin  verses;  a  sample  of  which  we  have  in  the  famous 
line  on  Franklin : 

Eripuit  ccelo  fulmen,  eceptrumque  tyrannis. 

Sir  George  C.  Lewis,  when  not  busied  with  budgets, 
copied  Greek  manuscripts  in  the  British  Museum,  or 
investigated  reported  cases  of  longevity.  Occasionally 
we  hear  of  a  discrepancy  between  a  man's  public  and 
private  character  that  is  too  ludicrous  for  belief.  "I 
have  heard,"  says  an  English  writer,  "of  a  clever, 
active  farmer,  who,  while  universally  respected  as  a 
first-rate  agriculturist,  a  man  of  large  means  and  liberal 
understanding,  was  accessible  to  no  flattery  on  these 
accounts;  but,  if  you  had  only  told  him  that  you  had 
heard  of  his  possessing  a  wonderful  power  of  squeaking 
like  a  pig,  and  were  extremely  anxious  to  hear  him  try 
it,  he  would  blush  and  hesitate,  like  a  young  lady  asked 
to  sing,  disclaim  all  merit,  say  it  was  great  nonsense, 
and  finally,  after  a  sufficiency  of  pressing,  he  would 
exhibit  as  a  pig  —  evidently  believing  that,  if  fortune 
had  played  him  fair,  he  would  have  astonished  the 


OUR   DUAL   LIVES.  179 

whole  world  by  his  art,  instead  of  being  only  a  're 
spectable  farmer.' " 

Another  striking  discrepancy  between  the  outer  and 
the  inner  man  is  the  vivid  contrast  which  we  often 
observe  of  a  person's  talk  or  writings  with  his  life, — of 
his  speculation  with  his  acts.  It  has  been  truly  said 
that  there  is  a  division  of  labor  even  in  vice ;  some 
men  addict  themselves  to  the  speculation  only,  others 
to  the  practice.  Montaigne  tells  us  that  he  "always 
observed  supercelestial  opinions  and  subterranean  morals 
to  be  of  singular  accord;"  and  it  is  a  fact  which  has 
escaped  the  notice  of  few,  that  purists,  hypocrisy  apart, 
are  sometimes  the  freest  livers;  while,  on  the  other 
hand,  some  of  the  most  latitudinarian  professors  of  a 
general  license  of  behavior  have  been  the  last  to  take 
the  benefit  of  their  own  doctrines,  from  which  they 
reap  nothing  but  the  obloquy,  and  the  pleasure  of 
startling  their  "wonder- wounded"  hearers.  An  author's 
book  is  often  a  poor  key  with  which  to  unlock  his 
character.  Because  certain  poets  have  been  enthusiastic 
in  their  praises  of  wine,  we  may  not  positively  infer 
that  they  were  addicted  to  tippling.  It  was  the  very 
rarity  of  the  indulgence  that  gave  such  zest  to  their 
strains;  for,  as  the  truly  heart-broken  mourner  suffers 
only  an  occasional  sob  to  escape  him,  so  no  man  cares 
to  descant  ecstatically  upon  any  subject  with  which  he 
is  thoroughly  familiarized.  Men  of  genius  who  have 
happy  homes  do  not  babble  about  that  happiness  in 
their  writings.  Nine-tenths  of  those  who  have  raved 
in  rapturous  stanzas  about  the  sweets  of  conjugal  love 
were  bachelors  shivering  in  solitary  garrets. 

Could  the  secrets  of  authorship  be  disclosed,  it 
would  be  found  that  romances  of  foreign  lands  come 
generally  from  persons  who  have  never  smelt  salt-water, 


180  OUB  DUAL  LIVES. 

just  as  "stories  of  real  life,"  showing  "a  deep  insight 
of  human  nature,"  come  from  those  who  would  be 
shocked  at  an  iron  spoon.  Rural  life  is  the  eternal 
burden  of  a  sailor's  talk;  while  farmers,  who  are  fix 
tures  of  the  soil,  think  nothing  so  pleasant  as  a  life  of 
sight-seeing  and  adventure  in  foreign  lands.  Moun 
taineers  and  rustics  have  an  intense  appreciation  of  the 
advantages  of  great  cities;  while,  on  the  other  hand, 
the  denizens  of  great,  ugly,  smoky  towns  have  a  pas 
sionate  longing  for  beautiful  scenery  and  rustic  retire 
ment.  The  author  of  "The  Intellectual  Life"  says 
truly  that  the  development  of  modern  landscape-paint 
ing  has  been  due,  not  to  habits  of  rural  existence,  but 
to  the  growth  of  very  big  and  hideous  modern  cities, 
which  made  men  long  for  shady  forests,  and  pure 
streams,  and  magnificent  spectacles  of  sunset,  and  dawn, 
and  moonlight.  Paul  Jones,  the  hero  of  desperate  sea- 
fights,  loved  Thomson's  "Seasons";  Bonaparte,  who 
overran  Europe  with  his  armies,  recreated  himself  with 
the  wild  rhapsodies  of  Ossian;  and  Spinoza,  who  passed 
his  days  among  the  cobwebs  of  metaphysics,  amused 
himself  by  seeing  spiders  fight. 

The  most  exquisitely-delicate  artists  in  literature  and 
painting  have  astonished  their  friends  by  their  coarse 
ness;  and  Swift  even  declared  that  a  nice  man  is  a 
man  of  nasty  ideas.  It  is  said  that  within  the  Chateau 
briand  of  "Atala"  there  existed  an  obscene  Chateau 
briand  that  would  burst  forth  occasionally  in  talk  that 
no  biographer  would  repeat;  and  the  same  has  been 
affirmed  of  the  sentimental  Lamartiue.  Turner,  dreamer 
of  enchanted  landscapes,  took  the  pleasures  of  a  sailor 
on  a  spree.  Too  much  thinking  drove  Johnson  to  his 
cat  for  conviviality ;  and  a  similar  reaction  drove  Byron 
to  fight  for  Greece. 


OUR   DUAL   LIVES.  181 

Heron's  "Comforts  of  Human  Life"  was  written, 
under  the  most  painful  circumstances,  in  prison ;  Beres- 
ford's  "Miseries  of  Human  Life"  was  composed  in  a 
drawing-room,  amid  the  most  elegant  appointments  and 
luxuries.  Seneca  was  never  more  eloquent  in  his 
praises  of  poverty  than  when  writing  on  a  table  of 
gold,  with  a  large  sum  on  deposit  at  his  banker's.  It 
was  from  a  sick  bed,  in  exile,  and  in  sore  distress,  that 
Tom  Hood  shook  all  England  with  laughter.  He  who 
was  so  thin  and  spectre-like  that  he  looked  like  an 
afternoon  shadow  of  somebody  else,  was  always  writing 
about  fat  people;  and,  though  the  prince  of  jesters, 
was  so  grave  and  saturnine,  that,  when  travelling  with 
the  Prussian  army  to  Berlin,  he  was  taken  for  the 
Chaplain  of  the  regiment.  Johnson,  who  wrote  so  well 
on  politeness,  trampled  on  all  the  "linen  decencies"  of 
life;  and  Sterne,  who  wept  over  a  dead  ass,  neglected 
his  living  mother.  "Go,  poor  fly,  I  will  not  harm 
thee;  surely,  the  world  is  big  enough  for  thee  and  me," 
could  be  said  by  a  domestic  tyrant;  and  the  tender 
love-notes  to  the  unhappy  Stella  came  from  a  man  of 
so  cruel  a  heart  that  it  has  been  said  that  his  tender 
ness  was  manifest  only  on  paper.  On  the  other  hand, 
when  Lady  Blessington's  effects  were  sold  by  auction, 
who,  think  you,  of  the  twenty  thousand  persons  who 
visited  the  house  previously,  alone  showed  any  visible 
emotion  at  the  wreck  of  a  prosperity  in  which  most 
of  them  had  shared?  It  was  Thackeray,  the  cynic 
and  satirist  of  woman,  whose  theory  of  her,  expressed 
with  bitter  irony  in  one  formula, —  all  clever  women 
are  wicked,  and  all  good  women  are  fools, —  has  made 
his  name  hateful  to  the  sex.  The  finest  pastorals  have 
been  written  in  the  city;  the  most  mirth-provoking 
jests  have  fallen  from  the  lips  of  the  gloomiest  men; 


182  OUB   DUAL   LIVES. 

and  great  wits  in  society  have  startled  the  world  with 
tragedies  in  their  closets.  Dr.  Young,  whose  Parnas 
sus  was  a  churchyard,  who  drank  of  the  Eiver  Styx 
instead  of  Hippocrene,  and  who  sought  his  inspiration 
from  cross-bones  and  skulls,  was  a  jovial,  pleasure- 
loving  man  and  a  court-sycophant,  who,  having  supped 
full  of  the  world  and  its  follies,  turned  state's  evidence 
against  them,  and  satirized  the  pursuits  in  which  he 
had  failed.  On  the  other  hand,  Listen,  the  comic  actor, 
who  maddened  London  nightly  with  laughter,  used  to 
sit  up  after  midnight  to  read  the  Doctor's  "Night 
Thoughts,"  delighting  in  its  monotonous  gloom.  Men's 
characters,  like  dreams,  must  be  unriddled  by  contraries. 
But  how  shall  we  explain  this  phenomenon, —  this 
dualism  by  which  a  man  lives,  from  youth  to  age,  two 
different  and  strongly  contrasted  lives?  Shall  we  say, 
in  all  cases  where  a  man  fancies  himself  "cut  out"  for 
some  other  calling  than  that  in  which  he  has  signalized 
himself,  that  he  is  self-deluded?  Is  it  impossible  that 
opposite  intellectual  powers  can  coexist  in  the  same 
person?  Is  every  man  doomed  to  play,  Paganini-like, 
on  a  single  string?  Shall  every  Brougham  who  aston 
ishes  us  by  his  many-sidedness,  be  told  that  "science 
is  his  forte,  omniscience  his  foible  ?  "  Even  if  we  reject 
Dr.  Johnson's  notion,  that  genius  is  nothing  more  than 
great  general  powers  of  mind,  capable  of  being  turned 
any  way,  and  that  "a  man  who  has  vigor  may  walk 
to  the  East  just  as  well  as  to  the  West,"  must  we  of 
necessity  adopt  the  opposite  extreme  of  Emerson,  that 
every  man  is  born  to  some  one  thing,  and  that  only, 
which  no  other  man  can  do?  that  "he  is  like  a  ship 
in  a  river;  he  runs  against  obstructions  on  every  side 
but  one:  QU  that  side  all  obstruction  is  taken  away, 


OUR   DUAL   LIVES.  183 

and  he  sweeps  serenely  over  a  deepening  channel  into 
an  infinite  sea?" 

Doubtless,  in  the  vast  majority  of  cases,  though 
there  may  be  some  foundation  for  the  individual's  be 
lief  that  he  has  missed  his  true  vocation,  and  that 
nature  intended  him  for  something  better  or  higher, 
yet  he  exaggerates  his  qualifications,  and  only  dreams 
of  another  self  grander  than  that  with  which  the  world 
has  credited  him.  The  truth  of  the  matter  is,  the  mind 
wearies  of  monotony,  and  needs  the  rest  of  alternation 
as  much  as  the  body.  We  all  hate  self-imprisonment; 
we  long  occasionally  to  get  out  of  ourselves;  to  throw 
off  the  yoke  of  our  own  personality;  and,  like  Pope's 
youth, 

"Foredoomed  his  father's  soul  to  cross, 
Who  pens  a  stanza  when  he  should  engross," 

if  we  can  escape  for  a  time  from  the  drudgery  of  our 
ordinary  calling,  and  soar  into  some  higher  atmosphere 
where  we  can  breathe  more  freely,  we  feel  like  a  bird  that 
has  escaped  from  its  cage,  or  a  prisoner  who  has  thrown 
off  his  shackles.  Merely  in  getting  out  of  our  groove, 
in  forgetting  for  a  few  hours  the  iron  realities  of  our 
daily  life,  and  imagining  ourselves  something  else, — 
there  is  a  new  and  unwonted  sensation.  New  faculties 
are  called  into  play,  and  we  experience  a  delight  akin 
to  that  which  is  felt  in  our  dreams,  when  we  fancy 
ourselves  giants,  and  perform  physical  impossibilities. 
Hence  Pascal  has  remarked  that  if  an  artisan  could 
imagine  for  twelve  hours  that  he  was  a  king,  he  would 
be  almost  as  happy  as  a  king  who  for  twelve  hours 
imagined  himself  an  artisan. 

Again,  in  a  man's  true  calling,  wherein  he  has  won 
distinction,  he  sees  and  appreciates  all  the  difficulties 


184  OUR   DUAL   LIVES. 

to  be  overcome;  and  because  they  loom  up  in  fearful 
proportions,  and  seem  insurmountable,  he  sinks  into 
despondency  while  others  are  echoing  his  praises.  It  is 
precisely  because  he  has  adopted  a  lofty  standard, —  be 
cause  he  is  haunted  by  an  ideal  which  forever  lures 
him  on,  yet,  like  the  horizon,  forever  flies  before  him, 
mocking  him  with  its  unattainable  beauty, —  because,  as 
he  climbs  one  rugged  steep  after  another, 

"  Hills  peep  o'er  hills,  and  Alps  on  Alps  arise," 

— that  he  is  self-dissatisfied,  and  regrets  that  he  did 
not  choose  some  other  calling.  In  an  art,  however,  for 
which  his  genius  does  not  fit  him, — in  which  no  im 
possible  ideal  tantalizes  him, — he  sees  no  difficulties 
which  he  does  not  readily  overcome,  and,  being  easily 
self-satisfied,  applauds  himself  where  the  true  artist, 
the  master,  would  be  filled  with  profound  dissatisfaction 
and  melancholy.  Yet  it  is  doubtless  true  that  chance, 
not  the  bent  of  one's  genius,  often  determines  his  pro 
fession,  and  hence  "the  round  man"  often  gets  into 
"the  square  hole,"  and  dies  in  obscurity,  when,  under 
different  circumstances,  he  might  have  won  distinction 
and  happiness. 

Vanity  may  fool  one  here,  but  who  will  deny  that 
a  vast  amount  of  talent  in  society  does  thus  run  to 
waste?  Who  has  not  thought,  again  and  again,  of 
what,  under  more  favorable  circumstances,  he  might 
have  been?  Do  angels  ever  weep?  It  must  be  when 
they  see  men  walk  through  life  as  through  a  masque, 
—  veiling  their  true  selves  from  every  eye, —  giving  only 
occasional  glimpses  of  the  real  man  in  whimsical  tastes 
and  eccentricities, —  drudging  through  tasks  in  which 
they  feel  no  enthusiasm, —  acting  up  to  characters  im 
posed  upon  them, —  doing  nothing  from  the  heart,  and 


OUR  DUAL   LIVES.  185 

"goring"  their  best  thoughts  to  make  them  lie  still. 
When  we  consider  how  much  of  the  world's  menial 
work  must  be  done  by  those  who  feel  within  them 
selves  incessant  promptings  to  nobler  tasks,  we  see  the 
need  of  Christian  principle  that  we  may  stand  like  true 
soldiers  to  the  posts  which  our  Maker  has  assigned  us. 
Viewed  in  this  light,  no  labor  that  is  necessary  can  be 
low  or  sordid,  but,  as  good  George  Herbert  beautifully 
sings : 

"A  servant  with  this  clause 

Makes  drudgery  divine: 
Who  sweeps  a  room,  as  for  Thy  laws, 

Makes  that  and  the  action  fine." 

Again, —  when  we  reflect  how  many  thousands  are 
compelled  by  stern  necessity  to  follow  vocations  unsuited 
to  their  tastes  and  powers,  we  shall  pause  before  think 
ing  meanly  of  any  man  on  account  of  the  lowliness  of 
the  duties  which  God  has  called  him  to  perform. 
There  is  a  class  of  religionists  in  the  East,  says  a  writer, 
who  will  strike  no  animal,  from  a  belief  that  possibly 
the  soul  of  some  late  endeared  relative  of  their  own 
may  now  occupy  its  body;  just  so,  when  we  feel  dis 
posed  to  contemn  the  lowly  duties  of  any  man,  we 
might  do  well  to  consider  that  possibly  faculties  are 
there  which  might,  under  advantageous  circumstances, 
have  ruled  "listening  senates,"  or  "waked  to  ecstacy 
the  living  lyre." 
24 


MEKRY   SAINTS. 


MERRY  saints!  Yes,  reader,  and  why  not  merry 
saints,  as  well  as  jovial  sinners?  Why,  if  reli 
gion  be  designed  to  make  us  happy,  should  it  come  to 
us  always  in  the  shape  of  a  death's  head  and  a  cross- 
bones,  or  any  other  memento  morif  When  will  the  old 
theological  idea  that  mortals  are  sent  here  as  to  a  place 
of  sore  chastisement  and  mortification,  be  rooted  from 
our  minds?  We  are  not  living  in  the  middle  ages,  nor 
can  we  be  made  to  believe  that  the  sect  of  Flagellants, 
who  lashed  themselves  during  the  day  till  the  blood  ran 
into  their  shoes,  and  who  sang  penitential  psalms  all  night 
in  cold  rooms  in  midwinter, —  or  any  of  the  other  old 
saints  the  longitude  of  whose  faces  so  far  exceeded  the 
latitude, —  had  the  true  secret  of  piety.  "True  godliness 
is  cheerful  as  the  day,"  wrote  Cowper,  himself  lugubrious 
enough ;  and  even  the  founder  of  our  faith,  by  direct 
ing  us  when  we  fast  to  anoint  our  countenances,  and 
not  to  seem  to  fast,  enjoins  a  certain  liveliness  of  face. 
It  has  been  well  said  that  all  great,  whole-hearted  peo 
ples  have  been  lively  and  bustling,  noisy  almost,  in 
their  progress,  pushing,  energetic,  broad  in  shoulder, 
strong  in  lung,  loud  in  voice,  of  free,  brave  color,  bold 
look,  and  bright  eyes.  They  are  the  cheerful  people  in 
the  world, — 

Active  doers,  noble  livers, —  strong  to  labor,  sure  to  conquer, 
and  soon  outstrip  in  their  course  the  gloomy  and  the 


MERRY   SAINTS. 

despondent.  An  hilarious  elasticity  of  nature  is  surely 
one  of  the  most  invaluable  qualities  a  man  can  have; 
why,  then,  should  not  the  faculty  of  being  merry, —  of 
finding  an  eager  pleasure  in  all  sorts  of  objects  and 
pursuits,— be  trained  and  encouraged?  And  why  should 
the  man  who  goes  through  the  world  with  sober,  solemn 
jowl  be  thought  to  be  showing  a  deeper  sense  of  the 
worth  of  life,  and  to  be  making  more  of  his  abilities, 
than  the  elastic  man?  We  would  not  see  the  pious 
man  with  a  perpetual  broad  grin  on  his  face,  for  the 
pious  are  thoughtful,  and  thoughtfulness  cannot  endure 
to  be  a  long  while  yoked  with  "laughter  holding  both 
its  sides;"  yet  there  is  a  harmless  mirth,  as  old  Fuller 
calls  it, —  in  the  middle  zones  between  frantic  merri 
ment  and  the  indigo  blues, — which  the  devout  man  will 
find  no  hindrance  to  the  cultivation  of  his  religious 
feelings,  while  it  is  the  best  cordial  for  his  spirits. 

It  was  a  maxim  of  Bishop  Elphinstone,  an  eminent 
Scottish  saint,  that  when  any  one  sits  in  company,  and 
any  merry  thought  comes  into  his  head,  he  ought  to 
give  utterance  to  it  immediately,  so  that  all  present 
may  be  benefited.  Sydney  Smith,  when  a  poor,  strug 
gling  curate  at  Foston-le-Clay,  a  dreary,  out-of-the-way 
place,  wrote :  "  I  am  resolved  to  like  it,  and  to  reconcile 
myself  to  it,  which  is  more  manly  than  to  fancy  myself 
above  it,  and  to  send  up  complaints  by  the  post  of 
being  thrown  away,  or  being  desolate,  and  such  like 
trash."  Acting  in  this  spirit,  he  said  his  prayers,  made 
his  jokes,  cheered  and  helped  his  neighbors,  and  upon 
fine  mornings  used  to  draw  up  the  blinds  of  his  little 
parlor,  open  the  window,  and  "glorify  the  room,"  as 
he  called  the  act,  with  sunshine.  Yet  this  was  nothing 
to  the  sunshine  that  flooded  his  heart  and  lighted  up 
his  face;  and  so  buoyant  was  he  in  spirit  when  his 


188  MERRY   SAINTS. 

physical  strength  was  nearly  exhausted,  that,  just  before 
he  died,  he  playfully  described  his  condition  by  saying, 
"I  feel  so  weak,  both  in  body  and  mind,  that  I  verily 
believe  if  a  knife  were  put  into  my  hand,  I  should  not 
have  strength  or  energy  enough  to  stick  it  into  a  dis 
senter." 

A  more  striking  example  was  Robert  Hall,  who 
could  indulge  in  merry  jests  and  pungent  sayings  even 
when  suffering  from  sharp  pain.  "  Mr.  Hall,"  said  some 
one  to  him,  "I  understand  you  are  going  to  marry 

Miss ?"     "I  marry  Miss  !     I  would  as  soon 

marry  Beelzebub's  eldest  daughter,  and  go  home  and 
live  with  the  old  folks."  To  a  solemn  brother  who 
rebuked  him  for  his  vivacity,  he  replied:  "You  carry 
your  nonsense  into  the  pulpit ;  I  keep  mine  out."  Even 
when  stricken  with  mental  hallucination,  he  did  not 
lose  his  relish  for  a  jest.  When  a  stereotyped  condoler 
called  upon  him  at  the  asylum,  and  asked,  in  a  whining 
tone,  "What  brought  you  here,  Mr.  Hall?"  he  signifi 
cantly  touched  his  head  and  replied,  "What'll  never 
bring  you,  sir!  too  much  brain,  sir!  too  much  brain!" 
Thomas  Paine,  writing  against  the  Bible,  he  character 
ized  as  "a  mouse  nibbling  at  the  wing  of  an  archangel." 
Dr.  Gill's  Commentary  was  a  "continent  of  mud;"  the 
writings  of  Owen  "a  valley  of  dry  bones."  When  we 
think  of  the  dreadful  agonies  that  racked  Mr.  Hall's 
powerful  frame,  we  cannot  wonder  that  he  thought  of 
heaven  chiefly  as  a  place  of  rest,  nor  that  his  experi 
ence  was  sometimes  clouded  by  storms  and  darkness, 
just  as  many  of  his  majestic  sermons  are  tinged  by 
the  shades  and  terrors  that  grew  upon  his  great  soul; 
but  it  is  a  marvel  to  which  we  can  find  nothing  more 
wondrous  in  the  whole  library  of  brave  anecdote,  that, 
after  tossing  and  writhing  upon  the  rug  before  the 


MERRY   SAINTS.  189 

fire,  the  only  place  in  which  he  could  get  ease,  he  could 
start  up  livid  with  exhaustion,  and  with  the  sweat  of 
anguish  on  his  brow,  to  proclaim  without  a  murmur 
from  his  pulpit  the  message  of  God  to  a  lost  world. 
"I  suffered  much,"  the  noble  hero  used  to  say  after 
these  paroxysms,  "but  I  did  not  cry  out,  did  I?  did  I 
cry  out?" 

We  do  not  deny  that  a  laugher  may  be, —  nay,  too 
often  is, —  a  scoffer  and  a  scorner.  Some  jesting  there 
is  that  is  like  "the  crackling  of  thorns  under  a  pot;" 
and  some  jesters  there  be,  who  are  fools  of  a  worse 
breed  than  those  that  used  to  wear  the  cap  and  the 
bells.  But,  as  Archdeacon  Hare  so  justly  observes, 
though  a  certain  kind  of  wit,  like  other  intellectual 
gifts,  may  coexist  with  moral  depravity,  there  has  often 
been  a  playfulness  in  the  best  and  greatest  men, —  in 
Phocion,  in  Socrates,  in  Luther,  in  Sir  Thomas  More, 
—  which,  as  it  were,  adds  a  bloom  to  the  severer  graces 
of  their  character,  shining  forth  with  amaranthine  bright 
ness  when  storms  assail  them,  and  springing  up  in 
fresh  blossoms  under  the  axe  of  the  executioner.  It  is 
the  strongest  and  most  thoughtful  mind  that  perceives 
most  keenly  the  manifold  and  perpetually-occurring 
contradictions,  and  incongruities,  and  inconsistencies  of 
life;  and  hence  a  great  writer  regards  humor  as  often 
"  the  natural  associate  of  an*  intense  love  of  truth,  if  it 
be  not  rather  a  particular  form  and  manifestation  of  that 
love,"— leading  one  to  strip  off  the  artificial  drapery 
and  conventional  formalities  of  life,  and  to  look  straight 
at  the  realities  hidden  beneath  them  in  their  naked  con 
trasts  and  contradictions.  Such  was  the  humor  of 
Luther,  of  whom  it  has  been  said  that  he  was  "open 
as  the  sky,  merry  as  the  sunshine,  bold  and  fearless  as 
the  storm."  He  believed  that  the  earth  was  the  Lord's 


190  MERRY    SAINTS. 

and  the  fulness  thereof,  and  never  thought  that  he 
honored  God  by  wearing  a  long  face.  So  he  cracked 
jokes  with  Lord  Gate,  as  he  playfully  called  his  wife; 
talked  to  his  cat,  and  patted  the  head  of  his  old  dog, 
which  he  had  for  sixteen  years;  laughed,  body  and 
soul,  at  the  caricatures  of  the  Pope  which  hung  upon 
his  study  wall;  and  replied  to  the  denunciations  of 
his  enemies  by  merry  jests.  Not  so  John  Calvin.  To 
him  this  world  was  a  waste,  howling  wilderness ;  God's 
curse  was  upon  it,  and  therefore  he  had  no  eye  for  its 
beauty,  no  ear  for  its  music.  He  had  no  favorite  cats 
and  pet  dogs,  no  flutes  and  pictures  and  merry  games, 
like  Luther;  he  rarely  smiled,  and  still  more  rarely 
laughed;  and  when  he  did  laugh,  it  was  a  very  weak, 
thin,  sniggering,  husky  affair, —  what  Carlyle  calls  a 
kind  of  laughing  through  wool, —  not  at  all  like  the 
clear,  loud,  ringing  laugh  of  Luther.  We  may  respect 
the  great  Genevan  as  a  giant  of  theology;  but  who,  as 
he  reads  his  biography,  thinks  of  clasping  him  to  his 
heart,  as  he  does  Doctor  Martin? 

That  pink  of  propriety,  Lord  Chesterfield,  thought 
it  ungentlemanlike  to  laugh.  It  was  a  shocking  dis 
tortion  of  the  face.  "  I  am  sure,"  he  wrote  to  his  son, 
"  that  since  I  have  had  the  full  use  of  my  reason,  no 
body  has  ever  heard  me  laugh."  We  cannot  help 
thinking  that  it  would  have  been  far  better  for  him  if 
he  had  occasionally  given  way  to  his  feelings,  and  not 
impressed  the  world  with  the  notion  that  he  was  all 
starch  and  formality, —  that  everything  he  said  or  did 
was  calculated.  He  was  the  politest,  best-bred,  most 
insinuating  man  about  the  Court;  and  yet  he  was  con 
tinually  outflanked  and  outmanoeuvred  by  Sir  Eobert 
Walpole,  who  had  the  heartiest  laugh  in  the  Kingdom, 
and  by  the  Duke  of  Newcastle,  who  had  the  worst 


MERRY   SAINTS.  191 

manners  in  the  world.     The  over-sober  Christian  will 
hardly  be  proud  of  Chesterfield  as  an  ally. 

The  truth  is,  the  best  men  have  been  the  fondest 
of  innocent  mirth.  It  has  been  truly  said  that  the 
clergy,  as  a  body,  are  among  the  most  humorous  of 
men.  Were  their  quips,  and  pranks,  and  mirth-pro 
voking  jests  collected  into  a  volume,  they  would  make 
one  of  the  most  amusing  books  in  literature.  Old  Dr. 
Em-mons,  of  Franklin,  Mass.,  said  as  pungent  things 
at  table  as  in  the  pulpit.  His  wit  was  as  sharp  as  his 
logic.  A  young  preacher  occupied  his  pulpit  one  day, 
and  at  dinner  angled  for  a  compliment.  "I  hope  I 
did  not  weary  you  by  the  length  of  my  sermon,  Doc 
tor?"  "No,  nor  by  its  breadth,  either."  "I  am 
afraid,"  said  another  young  clergyman,  "I  did  not  get 
fairly  into  my  subject,  in  my  sermon  to-day."  "Well, 
young  man,  do  you  know  the  reason  why?  It  was 
because  your  subject  never  got  into  you."  Lyman 
Beecher  was  full  to  bursting  with  humor.  Some  friends 
wished  him  to  prosecute  a  libeller.  "I  once  threw  a 
folio  of  divinity  at  a  skunk.  I  got  a  new  suit  of 
clothing,  and  had  to  pay  for  the  rebinding  of  the 
volume."  Henry  Ward  Beecher's  witticisms  would  fill 
a  volume.  To  a  brother  who  was  to  preach  an  official 
sermon  in  Plymouth  church, —  who  was  celebrated  for 
the  length  and  ponderosity  of  his  performances, —  the 
pastor  said:  "Eight  under  your  feet  is  a  genuine 
Baptist  pool.  It  is  of  the  orthodox  dimensions,  and 
half  full  of  water.  The  spring  is  under  my  foot.  If 
the  preacher  is  dry  and  long,  I  touch  the  spring  and 
let  him  in!"  Spurgeon  is  noted  for  the  keenness  and 
causticity  of  his  wit,  and  during  his  gravest  sermons 
the  hearer's  face  often  relaxes  into  a  smile.  When  a 
well-known  bore  sent  word  to  him  that  "  a  servant  of 


192  MERRY  SAINTS. 

the  Lord"  wished  to  see  him,— "Tell  him,"  was  the 
reply,  "  that  I  am  engaged  with  his  Master."  In  preach 
ing  to  a  company  of  butchers,  he  opened  with  the  hymn, 

Not  all  the  blood  of  beasts 
On  Jewish  altars  slain,  etc. 

When  told  that  twins  were  born  to  him,  he  cried  out: 

Not  more  than  others  I  deserve, 
Yet  God  has  given  me  more. 

Some  years  ago  a  clergyman  near  Boston  asked 
another,  who  was  noted  for  his  prolixity,  to  preach  for 
him.  "I  cannot,"  was  the  reply,  "for  I  am  busy 
writing  a  sermon  on  the  Golden  Calf."  "That's  just 
the  thing,"  was  the  rejoinder;  "come  and  give  us  a 
forequarter  of  it." 

The  fact  that  so  many  men  who  have  been  brimful 
and  running  over  with  wit  and  humor  have  been  among 
the  simplest  and  kindest-hearted, —  nay,  among  the  de- 
voutest  of  men, —  convinces  us  that  it  is  the  harshness 
of  an  irreligious  temper,  masking  itself  as  religious  zeal, 
that  scowls  on  all  manifestations  of  mirth.  If  in  the 
Church  of  to-day  there  are  many  conscientious  persons 
who 

"  In  arioso  trills  and  graces 

Never  stray, 

But  gravissimo,  solemn  bases, 
Ham  away," 

it  was  not  so  with  Latimer,  Bishop  Earle,  Fuller,  Fene- 
lon,  and  many  others  whom  we  could  name,  in  the 
olden  time.  Then,  a  ready  wit  and  a  talent  for  clever 
answers  were  deemed  not  unsuitable  accompaniments  to 
a  devout  soul  completely  resigned  to  the  will  of  heaven. 
Some  of  the  sharp  sayings  of  Thomas  Aquinas  are  to  be 


MERRY   SAINTS.  193 

found  among  the  pleasantries  of  Joe  Miller.  Where  is 
the  writer  whose  pungent  witticisms  oftener  provoke  a 
laugh  than  do  those  of  Dr.  South,  of  the  English 
Church?  What  humorist  ever  shook  the  world  with 
more  inextinguishable  laughter  than  the  gloomy  and 
mortified  Pascal  ?  Though  he  belonged  to  the  sour  sect 
of  the  Jansenists,  the  "  Old  Light "  seceders  of  the  Kom- 
ish  Church,  yet  his  Provincial  Letters  is  the  wittiest 
book  that  France  can  boast.  One  of  the  most  illus 
trious  divines  whom  that  Church  has  produced  thus 
speaks  of  jocular  discourse  in  a  treatise  whose  express 
object  is  to  inculcate  holiness:  "As  for  jesting  words 
which  are  spoken  by  one  to  another  with  modest  and 
innocent  mirth,  they  belong  to  the  virtues  called  Eutra- 
phelia  by  the  Greeks,  which  we  may  call  good  conver 
sation,  by  which  we  take  an  honest  and  pleasant  recrea 
tion  upon  such  frivolous  occasions  as  human  imperfec 
tions  do  offer ;  only  we  must  take  heed  of  passing  from 
this  honest  mirth  to  scoffing,  for  mocking  causeth 
laughter  in  scorn  and  contempt  of  our  neighbor,  but 
mirth  and  drollery  provoke  laughter  by  an  innocent 
liberty,  confidence,  and  familiar  freedom,  joined  to  the 
witness  of  some  conceit."  So  talks  one  of  the  old,  me 
diaeval  writers  of  the  Church;  and  yet  an  opinion 
prevails  that  they  were  a  set  of  crabbed,  morose,  ascetic 
religionists,  who  were  shocked  at  every  burst  of  laughter, 
and  looked  upon  a  jest  with  horror!  Why,  they  were 
the  very  incarnation  of  mirth,  compared  with  some  of 
the  gloomy,  long-faced  pietists  of  the  present  day. 


ONE  BOOK. 


AMONG  the  maxims  which  have  come  down  to  us 
from  antiquity,  there  are  few  wiser  than  the 
Latin  proverb,  "Beware  of  the  man  of  one  book!" 
By  "the  man  of  one  book"  is  meant,  not,  as  some 
interpret  the  words,  the  man  who  has  read  but  a  single 
volume,  but  the  person  who  has  made  some  book  his 
pet,  his  chosen  companion, —  devoting  his  time  to  the 
critical,  exclusive  study  of  it  till,  like  the  iron  atoms 
of  the  blood,  its  ideas  have  become  a  part  of  his  men 
tal  constitution.  Who  can  doubt  that  such  a  study 
would  be  eminently  profitable  to  the  majority  of  readers 
to-day?  Of  two  young  men  of  equal  capacity,  let  one 
read  widely  and  miscellaneously,  browsing  freely  upon 
every  kind  of  literary  provender  that  falls  in  his  way, 
and  let  the  other  limit  himself  to  the  vigorous  and 
exhaustive  study  of  some  great  paramount  author,  some 
masterpiece  exacting  close  attention  and  continuous 
thought,  such  as  Butler's  Analogy,  Edwards  on  the 
Will,  Chillingworth's  Religion  of  Protestants,  Burke's 
French  Revolution,  Gibbon's  Decline  and  Fall,  etc.,  or 
Mill's  Logic, —  conning  and  brooding  over  it  day  by 
day  and  hour  by  hour, —  and  can  any  man  doubt  which 
of  the  two  students  would  be  the  most  dangerous  an 
tagonist  in  the  intellectual  arena?  While  the  former 
would  have  acquired  a  mass  of  heterogeneous  impres 
sions  lying  in  confused  masses  in  his  memory,  like  the 


ONE    BOOK.  195 

shreds  and  patches  of  a  rag-bag,  the  latter  would  have 
both  enriched  his  mind  and  gymnazed  it  by  a  rigid 
mental  discipline,  invigorating  every  faculty. 

But  we  are  not  left  to  theorize  on  the  effects  of 
such  a  discipline,  for  the  biographies  of  the  profoundest 
thinkers  and  the  most  accomplished  orators  and  authors 
show   that   they   have   been   preeminently,   in   the  just 
sense  of  the  phrase,  "men  of  one  book."    Demosthenes, 
we  are  told,  was  so  fascinated  by  the  history  of  Thucy- 
dides,  that,  to  obtain  a  perfect  mastery  of  his  style,  he 
recopied    the    work    eight    times.      Sir    William    Jones 
never  wearied  of  the   works  of  Cicero,  reading   them 
through    every    year.      Leibnitz,    who    drove    all    the 
sciences   abreast,   spent  a   large  portion   of  his  leisure 
hours  upon  one  or  two  chosen  authors.     At  such  time, 
Virgil,  his  favorite,  was  always  in  his  hand,  and,  when 
old,   he   could   repeat  whole  books   of  the  ^Eneid   by 
heart.      Dante,    too,    thumbed   the    Roman    poet    from 
morning   till  night.     Clarendon   acquired    his   masterly 
style   of  literary  portrait-painting  from  Tacitus,  whom 
he  read  day  and  night;  and  Montesquieu,  the  tersest  of 
French    authors,  got    the  secret   of  condensation   from 
the    same    Roman   historian,   who,   he    said,    "abridged 
everything  because   he   saw  everything."    Voltaire   had 
always   at    his   elbow   the   Athalie   of  Racine   and    the 
Petite  Careme  of  Massillon, —  the  one  the  finest  model 
of  French  verse,  the  other  of  French  prose.    Rousseau 
went  to  Plutarch,  Montaigne,  and    Locke  for   inspira 
tion,  and   Lord   Chatham  hung  over  the  pages  of  the 
mighty  Barrow  till   he  could  repeat  some  of  his  long 
sermons  by  heart.     Tonson,  the  bookseller,  rarely  called 
upon   Addison   without  finding  Bayle's   Dictionary  on 
the    table.       Gray    drank    inspiration    from     Spenser; 
Coleridge  lighted  his  lamp  at  that  of  Collins.     In  a 


196  ONE  BOOK. 

large  circle  of  men  of  letters,  some  years  ago  in  Eng 
land,  the  readiest  man  was  one  who  had  diligently  and 
devotedly  studied  Homer, —  so  diligently  and  devotedly 
indeed,  that,  upon  any  line  being  given  him,  he  was 
able  in  most  cases  to  repeat  the  next.  The  old  bard 
was  his  passion,  his  idol,  his  book  of  books;  and  there 
was  not  a  difficulty  in  the  idiom,  an  obscurity  in  the 
allusion,  a  labyrinth  in  the  construction,  or  a  subtle 
beauty  in  the  poetry,  with  which  he  was  not  thoroughly 
familiar,  and  could  not  acutely  and  agreeably  explain. 
By  the  intensity  of  that  study  he  had  not  only  so 
developed  his  reasoning  powers  as  to  become  a  most 
prompt  and  clear-headed  debater,  but  he  had  also 
acquired  a  completeness  of  execution  which  he  carried 
into  every  pursuit,  and,  more  than  that,  his  intellect 
had  gained  a  weight  and  power  which  were  felt  by  all 
who  knew  him. 

Pycroft,  in  his  Course  of  Reading,  tells  us  that  an 
eminent  literary  character  of  the  present  day  was  often 
found  in  his  childhood  lying  on  his  bed,  where  he 
would  not  be  interrupted,  reading  Robinson  Crusoe. 
"Only  reading  Robin,  only  Robin,"  was  the  constant 
excuse  for  all  absence  or  idleness;  and,  beginning  as  a 
boy  with  this  devotion  to  one  book,  he  became  a  man 
of  one  book, —  making  Shakspeare  his  favorite  author, 
and  devoting  a  lifetime  of  labor  to  the  interpretation  and 
illustration  of  the  thousand-souled  bard.  Are  there  not 
many  desultory,  indiscriminate,  wholesale  readers, —  mere 
"helluones  librorum,"  or  book-gluttons, — who  would 
profit  by  thus  thoroughly  digesting  and  assimilating  one 
great  author,  instead  of  regaling  themselves  upon  all  the 
luscious,  lulling  fruits  that  tempt  their  literary  appetites  ? 
Is  it  not  as  true  now  as  in  the  days  of  Seneca,  that- 
"he  that  is  everywhere  is  nowhere,"  and  that  the  trav- 


ONE   BOOK.  197 

eler  who  is  always  in  motion,  though  he  may  experience 
much  hospitality,  will  make  no  friendships? 

"We  are  aware  of  the  replies  that  may  be  made  to 
all  this;  that  the  man  who  feeds  upon  one  kind  of 
intellectual  diet,  will  be  in  danger  of  mental  scurvy; 
that  mental,  like  physical  stomachs,  have  their  idiosyn 
crasies,  and  no  one  sweeping  rule  can  be  laid  down  for 
all;  that  variety  of  knowledge  is  always  useful  when 
pursued  with  singleness  of  aim,  and,  if  it  result  in 
mere  superficiality,  it  is  because  it  "goes  into  a  bad 
skin;"  that  though  a  weak  mind,  which  cannot  digest 
a  single  wholesome  meal,  may  be  rendered  still  weaker 
by  indulging  its  whimsical  incongruous  tastes,  and 
nibbling  at  a  multitude  of  dishes,  yet  such  is  the  con 
stitution  of  a  healthy  intellect,  that  it  can  grasp  from 
every  side  with  avidity,  and  yet  without  surfeit,  thought 
of  all  sorts,  studies  from  every  direction,  varieties,  coin 
cidences,  differences,  and  contrasts,  and  assimilate  them 
all  to  its  growth  and  needs.  All  this  we  do  not  dis 
pute,  for  literary  history  abounds  with  instances  of  men 
who  have  plunged  headlong  into  a  sea  of  miscellaneous 
reading,  and  found  in  it  a  stimulus  and  an  inspiration 
which  they  could  never  have  found  in  a  single  pond 
or  lakelet  of  thought.  Sir  Walter  Scott  and  Dr.  John 
son  are  examples.  The  former,  when  a  boy,  had  an 
anaconda-like  digestion;  history,  poetry,  tale,  romance, 
legend,  all  were  devoured  by  him  with  a  most  voracious 
appetite.  But  is  an  intellect  like  Scott's  to  be  a  gauge 
of  the  capacity  of  men  in  general  ?  The  mind  of  the 
great  "Wizard  of  the  North"  was  a  law  unto  itself,  and 
independent  of  common  discipline.  There  are  cases,— 
and  his  was  one,—  where  the  very  strength  of  the 
craving  more  than  compensates  for  the  absence  of  an 
outward  rule.  His  mind  swooped  down  like  an  eagle 


198  ONE   BOOK. 

upon  everything  that  was  suited  to  its  tastes,  fastened 
upon  it  instinctively,  and  converted  it  into  just  the 
kind  of  nourishment  it  required.  Not  a  jot  or  tittle 
was  wasted;  every  thought,  anecdote,  illustration,  simile, 
was  assimilated,  and  became  a  part  of  his  mental  life- 
blood. 

But  how  many  Scotts  are  there  in  every  nation  or 
generation?  Is  it  not  clear  that  a  tithe  of  the  indis 
criminate  reading  which  he  could  digest  so  quickly 
and  profitably,  would  only  breed  dyspepsia  in  an  ordi 
nary  mind?  Does  not  the  truth  still  remain,  that, 
for  the  generality  of  men,  miscellaneous  reading  is,  as 
Rev.  F.  W.  Robertson  says  in  one  of  his  letters,  "the 
idlest  of  all  idleness,  and  leaves  more  impotency  than 
any  other;"  that  "it  becomes  a  necessity,  at  last,  like 
smoking,  and  is  an  excuse  for  the  mind  to  lie  dor 
mant,  while  thought  is  poured  in,  and  runs  through  a 
clear  stream  of  unproductive  gravel  on  which  not  even 
mosses  grow?"  Widely  and  indiscriminately  as  John 
son  read, —  ranging,  as  he  did,  over  all  the  fields  of 
literature, —  he  did  not  commend  his  example  to  others. 
"  Beware,"  he  said,  "  of  the  man  of  one  book.  Beware  of 
the  man  who  knows  anything  well.  He  is  a  dangerous 
antagonist"  What  was  it,  but  his  profounder  knowl 
edge  of  the  history  of  American  politics  than  any  other 
man  had,  that  made  Horace  Greeley  so  formidable  an 
opponent  ?  That  profound  thinker,  Hobbes  of  Malmes- 
bury,  used  to  say,  that  if  he  had  read  as  many  books 
as  other  men,  he  should  have  known  as  little.  It  may 
be  doubted  whether  the  facilities  for  obtaining  books  in 
these  days  are  not  a  curse  to  many  persons  rather  than 
a  blessing.  Certain  it  is  that  the  literary  giants  of  old 
were  very  differently  situated  in  this  respect,  and  that 
this  was,  in  no  small  degree,  the  secret  of  their  greatness. 


ONE   BOOK.  199 

The  very  scantiness  of  their  libraries,  by  compelling 
them  to  think  for  themselves,  was  an  advantage, — just 
as,  by  the  law  of  compensation,  financial  poverty  is  often 
a  blessing  in  disguise.  The  great  majority  of  men  must 
concentrate, —  must  patiently  cultivate  some  province  of 
thought, —  or  they  will  experience  the  disappointment 
of  those  heroes  whose  empire  has  been  lost  in  the  ambi 
tion  of  universal  conquest. 

Take  note  that,  in  so  warmly  commending  the  man 
of  one  book,  we  do  not  mean  the  reader  who  ignores  all 
others,  but  one  who,  while  making  not  a  few  great  works 
his  companions,  yet  selects  one  among  them  to  be 
not  only  his  companion  but  his  bosom  friend,  which  he 
will  nocturna  versare  manu,  versare  diurna, —  with 
which  he  will  commune  till  his  mind  is  thoroughly 
saturated  with  its  thought,  dyed  and  colored  by  its 
ideas,  yet,  while  drinking  in  its  inspiration  in  ox-like 
draughts,  never  losing  his  own  mental  identity  or  inde 
pendence,  but  growing  in  stature  and  strength  by  what 
he  feeds  on,  upon  the  principle  that  serpens,  nisi  ser- 
pentem  comederit,  non  fit  draco.  We  emphasize  the 
word  communion  because  it  is  evident  that  though 
reading  is  common,  communion  with  books  is  rare  in 
this  hurrying  age,  and  that  if  we  would  get  the  greatest 
good  from  any  great  thinker,  we  should  cultivate  the 
closest  acquaintance  with  him,  till  we  have  sounded  all 
the  depths  of  his  intellect,  and  made  his  intellectual 
treasures  our  own.  Of  such  a  communion  with  books, 
—  especially  if  they  are  the  bravest  and  noblest  books, 
books  forged  at  the  heart  and  fashioned  by  the  intellect 
of  the  bravest  and  noblest  men, —  who  can  be  dull 
enough  not  to  feel  the  benefit  when  he  returns  to  the 
common  world? 


PULPIT  ORATORY. 


"TTT~HY  is  it  that  pulpit  oratory  is  productive  of 
VV  comparatively  small  results?  Why  is  it  that 
of  the  millions  of  sermons  delivered  annually  in  the 
United  States,  so  few  are  remembered  for  a  day,  fewer  for 
a  week,  and  fewer  still  make  a  lasting  impression,  and 
revolutionize  men's  convictions,  feelings,  habits,  tastes, 
characters  ?  Reasoning  a  priori,  would  not  one  suppose 
that  the  results  of  pulpit  oratory  would  be  so  brilliant 
as,  in  comparison,  utterly  to  "pale  the  ineffectual  fires" 
of  the  lecture-room,  the  hustings,  and  the  forum  ?  Had 
an  ancient  critic,  an  Aristotle  or  a  Quintilian,  been  told 
that  a  time  was  coming  when  myriads  of  persons  should 
assemble  every  seventh  day  to  be  addressed  upon  the 
truths  of  a  religion  sublime  beyond  all  the  speculations 
of  philosophers,  yet,  in  all  fundamental  points,  within 
a  child's  apprehension,— that  the  loftiest,  the  profound- 
est,  the  most  heart-moving  of  all  themes  were  to  be  the 
topics  of  the  address, —  that  the  reception  given  to  it 
might,  and  probably  would,  affect  the  hearer's  condition 
for  weal  or  woe  through  inconceivable  cycles  of  time, 
—  could  the  critic  for  a  moment  doubt  that  such  occa 
sions  must  train  up  a  race  of  consummate  orators,  the 
overwhelming  effect  of  whose  eloquence  must  make  the 
efforts  of  Demosthenes  and  Cicero  seem  puny  and  con 
temptible?  Yet  what  is  the  fact?  Out  of  the  fifty 
thousand  or  more  discourses  that  will  be  delivered  next 


PULPIT  ORATORY.  201 

Sunday  between  the  St.  Croix  river  and  the  Golden 
Gate,  how  many  will  startle  or  coax  men  out  of  their 
sins  ?  Will  one  in  a  hundred  of  the  arrows  shot  by 
the  clerical  bowmen  prove  barbed  ones,  not  only  lodg 
ing  in  the  heart,  but  sticking  there  ?  Or,  will  not  the 
fact  be,  that,  with  comparatively  few  exceptions,  they 
will  but  graze  the  surface  of  that  organ,  or  scratch  the 
epidermis  of  the  hearer,  or,  perhaps,  fall  short  of  the 
mark, —  in  other  words,  that  while  the  preacher  is  ha 
ranguing,  some  of  his  hearers  will  be  brooding  over 
problems  in  their  business,  others  planning  a  "cor 
ner"  in  wheat  or  some  stock,  others  pursuing  a  strain 
of  thought  suggested  by  some  chance  word  of  the 
speaker,  others  building  air-castles,  others  uneasily  pull 
ing  out  their  watches  and  counting  the  minutes  to 
dinner  or  bed-time,  and  others  criticising  their  neigh 
bors'  dresses,  or  criticising  the  preacher,  and  wondering 
that  on  so  inspiring  a  theme  he  should  harangue  in 
so  humdrum  a  way?  We  fear  the  latter  supposition 
will  prove  to  be  the  correct  one,  and  we  propose  to 
state  what  we  think  to  be  one  of  the  fundamental  rea 
sons  why  the  ministrations  of  the  pulpit  are  so  often 
abortive  of  results. 

This  reason,  we  believe  to  be,  in  the  vast  majority 
of  cases,  not  a  defect  in  the  matter,  but  in  the  manner, 
chiefly  the  delivery,  of  discourses.  Of  course,  in  the 
clerical,  as  in  all  other  professions,  there  are  men  who 
have  mistaken  their  calling.  Many  a  man,  as  South 
says,  "runs  his  head  against  a  pulpit"  who  should 
have  followed  the  plough;  and  it  is  still  true  as  when 
Milton  uttered  his  sarcasm,  that  "if  any  carpenter, 
smith,  or  weaver,  were  such  a  bungler  in  his  trade  as 
are  many  clergymen  in  their  profession,  he  would  starve 
for  any  custom."  It  is  perfectly  true  that  ministers 


202  PULPIT  ORATORY. 

fail,  like  other  men,   from  incapacity,  dullness,  laziness, 
half-heartedness, —  from  all  the  causes  that  cripple  men's 
intellects,    and    paralyze   men's   energies.      So    long   as 
parents  continue  to  think  that  weak,  sickly  boys,  who 
have  not  force  enough  to  succeed  in  law,  medicine,  or 
trade,  "will  do"  for  the  ministry, —  that  a  youth  who 
has  not  sharpness  enough  to  sift  evidence  or  expose  a 
sophism,  who  lacks  nerve  to  badger  a  witness  or  ampu 
tate   a  leg,  may  yet   be   qualified   for   that  profession 
whose  members  are  to  scatter  the  sophistries  of  Strauss 
and  Renan,  and  to  smite  wickedness  in  high  places, — 
the  pulpit  will  continue  to  have  its  incapables.     With 
all  these  concessions,  however,  it   is  still  true  that  the 
main  element  of  ineffectiveness  in  preaching  is  the  dis 
regard,  the   almost   contempt,  of  manner  in   speaking. 
The  crying  want  of  the  pulpit  to-day  is  not  profound 
scholarship,  hair-splitting  metaphysic   subtlety,  rhetori 
cal  talent,  a  firmly  accentuated  conscience,  or  the  moral 
aroma  of  character,  but  oratorical  skill  and  power.     Of 
what  use  is  learning  to  a  preacher,  if  it  is  communi 
cated   to  his  hearers  in  squeaking  tones  that  grate  on 
their  ears,  or  in  a  drawling,  sing-song  voice  that  puts 
them  to   sleep?     What  matters  it  that  a  soldier  has  a 
sword  of  dazzling  finish,  of  the  keenest  edge,  and  the 
finest  temper,  if  he  has  never  learned  the  art  of  fence  ? 
All    life    abounds    with   illustrations    showing    that 
manner  is  as  potent  an  element  of  success  as  matter, 
form   as   substance.    It   is   said    that    Dryden   used   to 
speak  his  plays  so  coldly  as  utterly  to  emasculate  them; 
while  Nat  Lee  delivered  very  poor  dramas  with   such 
force  and  taste  that  a  performer  threw  down  his  part, 
in   despair  of  acting  up  to  the  recital  of  the  author. 
That    famous  angler  and  devout  man,  Izaak   Walton, 
who,  being  a  brother-in-law  of  Bishop  Ken,  knew  inti- 


PULPIT  ORATORY.  203 

mately  many  of  the  most  successful  clergymen  of  the 
seventeenth  century,  seems  to  have  understood  the 
secret  of  fishing  for  men  better  than  many  of  the 
professors  in  our  theological  seminaries.  In  "The  Com 
plete  Angler"  he  tells  of  a  certain  youthful  sprig  of 
divinity,  who,  going  "to  procure  the  approbation  of  a 
parish,"  and  wishing  to  make  his  success  certain,  bor 
rowed  of  a  fellow  student  a  sermon  which  the  latter 
had  preached  with  great  e"clat.  After  a  few  days  the 
borrower  came  back  very  much  crestfallen,  and  com 
plained  that  the  sermon,  which  he  had  delivered  word 
for  word,  was  a  failure.  "I  lent  you,  indeed,  my  fid 
dle,"  was  the  reply,  "but  not  my  fiddlestick."  From 
this,  honest  Izaak  very  sensibly  concludes  that  "the  ill 
pronunciation  or  ill  accenting  of  words  in  a  sermon 
spoils  it." 

The  truth  is,  there  never  was  a  great  preacher  who 
was  not  also  a  great  orator;  and  there  was  never  a 
great  orator  who  did  not  pay  immense  attention  to  the 
science  of  expressing  by  tongue  and  gesture  the  burn 
ing  thoughts  within  him.  Some  of  the  most  extraor 
dinary  effects  of  oratory  have  been  produced  by  passages 
which,  when  we  read  them  in  our  closets,  seem  tame 
and  commonplace.  The  Country  Parson  justly  remarks 
that  we  can  see  nothing  remarkable  in  those  quotations 
from  Chalmers  which  are  recorded  as  having  so  over 
whelmingly  oppressed  those  who  heard  them.  It  was 
his  manner,  not  his  matter,  that  electrified  his  hearers. 
The  elder  Booth,  being  once  asked  to  repeat  the  Lord's 
Prayer,  did  it  with  such  power  and  pathos  that  every 
heart  in  the  room  was  hushed,  and  every  eye  was  wet; 
and  the  gentleman  who  made  the  request  said :  "  I  have 
heard  the  words  a  thousand  times,  but  I  never  heard 
the  Lord's  Prayer  before." 


204  PULPIT   ORATORY. 

It  is,  indeed,  astonishing  how  much  weight,  and 
effect,  and  pathos  may  be  communicated  by  sonorous 
depth  and  melodious  cadences  of  the  human  voice  to 
sentiments  the  most  trivial;  and,  on  the  other,  how  the 
grandest  may  be  emasculated  by  a  style  of  delivery 
which  fails  in  distributing  the  lights  and  shadows  of 
a  musical  intonation.  In  what  other  way  can  we  ac 
count  for  the  fact  that  some  of  the  profoundest  and 
most  scholarly  discourses, —  discourses  which,  when  read, 
seem  full  of  "reason  permeated  and  made  red-hot  with 
passion," — have  fallen  almost  powerless  from  the  lips 
of  their  authors,  while  a  single  verse  of  Scripture,  com 
ing  from  the  lips  of  another  man,  has  acted  like  an 
electric  shock,  "tearing  and  shattering  the  heart,"  to 
use  De  Quincey's  fine  figure,  "  with  volleying  discharges, 
peal  after  peal?" 

If  there  is  a  preacher  in  this  country  who,  by  the 
weight  of  his  thought,  and  the  impressiveness  of  his 
style,  could  afford  to  dispense  with  elocutionary  helps, 
it  is  Dr.  Bushnell.  He  is  a  preacher  of  the  rarest  in 
tellectual  gifts,  whose  masterly  sermons  on  "The  New 
Life"  show  that,  except  in  the  charms  of  delivery, 
which  he  undervalues,  if  not  despises,  he  has  no  supe 
rior  in  America.  Yet,  in  spite  of  the  weight  of  his 
thoughts,  the  cogency  of  his  logic,  and  the  dazzling 
fence  of  his  rhetoric,  who  could  listen  to  a  sermon  of 
his  for  the  fourth,  or  even  third  time,  without  a  sense 
of  being  bored?  Yet  such  was  the  charm  of  White- 
field's  oratory,  that  a  man  heard  him  preach  the  same 
discourse  seventeen  times,  and  liked  it  the  seven 
teenth  time  far  better  than  the  first  time.  Indeed,  the 
cold-blooded  and  skeptical  Dr.  Franklin,  who  was  so 
often  swept  away  from  his  conservative  moorings  by  the 
mighty  flood  of  Whitefield's  eloquence,  declared  that  his 


PULPIT  ORATORY.  205 

oratory  never  reached  its  full  height  till  he  had  deliv 
ered  a  sermon  forty  times.  Were  Dr.  Bushnell  to  listen 
to  one  of  his  own  impressive  discourses  pronounced  by 
a  Summerfield  or  a  Spurgeon,  or  any  other  preacher 
capable  of  presenting  it  to  his  ear  in  its  full  signifi 
cance,  he  would  probably  be  amazed  at  its  vast  possi 
bilities  of  impressive  utterance,  and  would  cease  to 
recommend  to  neophytes,  as  he  did  a  few  years  since, 
to  cultivate  mental  gifts  to  the  comparative  neglect  of 
oratorical,  even  if  he  should  not  half  doubt  whether  he 
were  listening  to  his  own  production.  Even  of  Henry 
Ward  Beecher's  sermons,  it  has  been  justly  observed, 
that  he  who  knows  them  only  as  they  appear  in  print, 
can  form  but  a  dim  conception  of  their  omnipotence  as 
they  burst  into  being  from  the  flaming  breath  of  the 
great  preacher.  "Show  me,"  said  Omar  the  Caliph  to 
Amru  the  Warrior,  "the  sword  with  which  you  have 
fought  so  many  battles,  and  slain  so  many  infidels." 
"Ah!"  replied  Amru,  "the  sword  without  the  arm  of 
the  master  is  no  sharper  nor  heavier  than  the  sword  of 
Farezdak  the  poet." 

The  immense  importance  of  manner  in  preaching  is 
still  further  illustrated  by  an  anecdote  which  Professor 
Lawson,  a  theological  teacher  in  England,  used  to  tell 
of  one  of  his  pupils,  Andrew  Fletcher.  Dr.  Fletcher, 
after  completing  his  theological  studies,  passed  th^  first 
two  years  of  his  ministry  in  a  colleagueship  with  his 
father,  a  clergyman  of  Perthshire,  Scotland.  When  the 
father  preached,  the  listeners  were  few;  when  the  son 
discoursed,  the  house  was  flooded.  The  father's  sermons 
elicited  no  praises, —  the  son's  were  loudly  applauded; 
whereat  the  former  became  jealous  and  irritable.  At 
length  the  son  borrowed  one  of  his  father's  sermons, 
and  on  the  following  Sunday  preached  it  from  memory 


206  PULPIT   ORATORY. 

with  great  emphasis  and  animation.  The  hearers  were 
louder  than  ever  in  praise  of  the  youthful  orator,  and 
one  worthy  remarked,  "The  old  man  never  in  his  life 
preached  a  sermon  equal  to  that!"  It  has  been  well 
observed  that  a  discourse  delivered  by  one  man  becomes 
an  entirely  different  discourse  when  delivered  from 
another's  lips,  and  charged  with  another's  spirit.  When 
Mirabeau's  friend  complained  that  the  Assembly  would 
not  listen  to  him,  that  fiery  leader  asked  for  his  speech, 
and  the  next  day  electrified  the  Assembly  by  uttering 
as  his  own  the  words  they  had  refused  to  hear  from 
another.  "The  words  were  the  same;  the  force  and 
the  fire  that  made  them  thrilling  and  electric,  were  not 
his  friend's,  but  his  own." 

Need  we  add  to  all  these  illustrations  the  further 
ones  that,  according  to  Lord  Chesterfield,  the  Duke  of 
Argyle,  his  contemporary,  though  the  shallowest  thinker 
and  the  weakest  reasoner,  was  listened  to  with  more 
delight  than  any  other  man  in  the  House  of  Lords; 
and  that  while  the  speech  for  the  Gregorian  Calendar 
by  Lord  Macclesfield,  a  consummate  astronomer,  was 
received  with  yawns,  that  of  Chesterfield  himself,  who, 
as  he  himself  tells  us,  was  utterly  ignorant  of  the  science, 
but  a  captivating  orator,  chained  the  attention  and  won 
the  votes  of  the  House? 

Bishop  Berkeley  once  said  that  nine-tenths  of  the 
talent  and  learning  of  England  were  lost  to  it  for  want 
of  attention  to  elocution.  The  profoundest  knowledge 
of  the  elocutionary  art,  and  the  most  perfect  facility  in 
the  application  of  its  rules,  will  not  avail,  however, 
without  deep  feeling, — unaffected  earnestness, — in  the 
preacher.  Next  to  lack  of  oratorical  skill,  the  greatest 
defect  of  our  preachers,  as  a  body,  is,  not  that  they 
are,  but  they  too  often  seem  to  be,  wanting  in  heart. 


PULPIT  OKATORY.  207 

They  are  not  flames,  but  icicles.  They  preach  to  the 
head,  not  to  the  heart.  They  may  argue  with  logical 
precision,  but  they  argue  coldly.  They  convince  the 
understanding,  but  do  not  manifest  sensibility  enough 
to  touch  the  warm  sympathies,  and  make  a  vivid  im 
pression  upon  the  feelings  of  even  the  devout  soul. 
Instead  of  giving  a  deep  and  commanding  interest  to 
their  arguments  by  applying  them  to  those  feelings 
which  are  common  to  all  hearts,  and  which  will  eagerly 
answer  when  appealed  to,  they  endeavor  to  interest  the 
understandings  of  men  in  opposition  to  their  feelings, 
and  to  set  up  the  intellect  in  contemptuous  despotism 
over  every  generous  and  glowing  sympathy.  Who  can 
wonder,  when  religious  truth  is  enforced  in  this  dry, 
argumentative,  phlegmatic  manner, — when  the  preacher 
reads  his  drowsy  lucubration  without  lifting  his  nose  from 
the  text,  or  venturing  to  earn  the  shame  of  an  enthu 
siast, —  that  the  harangues  of  the  pulpit  are  so  destitute 
of  living  energy,  and  fail  to  alarm  the  profligate,  or  to 
animate  the  desponding?  What  would  be  the  result,  if 
an  actor  at  the  theatre,  instead  of  throwing  his  whole 
soul  into  his  "counterfeit  presentment"  of  feeling, — his 
mimicry  of  the  "billowy  ecstasy  of  wo," — should  drawl 
through  his  part  in  the  freezing  manner  of  many 
preachers?  Would  he  not  be  hissed  from  the  stage,  or 
play  to  empty  boxes? 

Lord  Erskine,  who  is  so  celebrated  for  the  delicacy 
and  tenderness  with  which  he  sometimes  describes 
scenes  of  domestic  endearment  and  felicity,  and  for  the 
lofty  tone  of  indignation  with  which  he  lashes  and 
scourges  their  invaders,  remarks,  in  the  letter  introduc 
tory  to  the  published  speeches  of  Fox,  that  "intellect 
alone,  however  exalted,  without  strong  feelings, —  with 
out,  even,  irritable  sensibility, —  would  be  only  like  an 


208  PULPIT   ORATORY. 

immense  magazine  of  powder,  if  there  were  no  such 
element  as  fire  in  the  natural  world.  It  is  the  heart 
which  is  the  spring  and  fountain  of  all  eloquence." 
Sheridan, —  himself,  in  the  opinion  of  Burke  and  Fox, 
the  greatest  orator  of  modern  times, —  held  evidently  the 
same  opinion,  for  he  said  of  one  whose  ministry  he  at 
tended,  "I  go  to  hear  Rowland  Hill,  because  his  ideas 
come  red-hot  from  the  heart"  Nothing  can  be  more 
true.  To  be  eloquent,  a  man  must  be  himself  affected. 
He  must  be  sincere.  He  must  be  in  earnest.  In  his 
own  heart  must  burn  the  fire  which  he  would  kindle 
in  the  bosoms  of  others: 

"  Si  vis  me  flere,  dolendum  est 
Primum  ipsi  tibi," 

says  Horace,  and  the  maxim  will  hold  to  the  "last  syl 
lable  of  recorded  time."  There  must  be  a  certain  hon 
esty  and  open-heartedness  of  manner, —  an  apparently 
entire  and  thorough  conviction  of  being  in  the  right, — 
an  everlasting  pursuit  of,  and  devotion  to,  the  subject, 
to  a  seeming  neglect  and  unconcern  as  to  everything 
else:  emotion,  feeling,  passion.  Even  in  discourses  of  a 
logical  character,  where  the  reasoning  approaches  almost 
to  mathematical  demonstration,  the  hearers  will  not  be 
impressed, —  they  will  scarcely  listen  with  patience,  un 
less  they  are  persuaded  that  the  conclusions  to  which 
the  speaker  would  force  them,  are  the  deliberate  and 
solemn  convictions  of  his  own  mind.  A  cold-blooded, 
phlegmatic  preacher  may  produce  a  discourse  irresistible 
in  argument,  elaborately  perfect  in  rhetorical  embellish 
ment,  and  painfully  correct  in  style,  but  nothing  can 
give  it  that  electric  fire  which  darts  through  and 
through  an  audience,  kindling  each  heart  into  enthu 
siasm,  save  natural  feeling  expressed  with  the  fervor  of 
earnest  sensibility. 


PULPIT   ORATORY.  209 

The  only  way  to  be  eloquent  in  the  pulpit  is  to 
banish  every  thought  of  self, —  to  forget  everything  but 
God  and  duty.  The  triumphs  of  true  eloquence,  touch 
ing,  grand,  sublime,  awful,  as  they  sometimes  have 
been,  are  seen  only  when  the  orator  stands  before  you 
in  the  simple  majesty  of  truth,  and,  overpowered  by 
the  weight  of  his  convictions,  forgets  himself  and  for 
gets  everything  but  his  momentous  subject.  You  think 
not  of  who  speaks,  or  how  he  speaks,  but  of  what  is 
spoken;  transported  by  his  pathos,  your  rapt  imagina 
tion  pictures  new  visions  of  happiness;  subdued  by  the 
gushes  of  his  tenderness,  your  ears  mingle  with  his; 
determined  by  the  power  of  his  reasoning,  you  are 
prompt  to  admit,  if  not  prepared  to  yield  to,  the  force 
of  his  arguments;  entering  with  your  whole  heart  and 
soul  into  the  subject  of  his  address,  you  sympathize 
with  those  strong  emotions  which  you  see  are  in  his 
bosom,  burning  and  struggling  for  utterance;  and  soon 
find  yourself  moving  onward  with  him  on  the  same 
impetuous  and  resistless  current  of  feeling  and  passion. 
"It  is  amazing,"  says  Goldsmith,  "to  what  heights  elo 
quence  of  this  kind  may  reach.  This  is  that  eloquence 
which  the  ancients  represented  as  lightning,  bearing 
down  every  opposer;  this  is  the  power  which  has  turned 
whole  assemblies  into  astonishment,  admiration,  and 
awe;  that  is  described  by  the  torrent,  the  flame,  and 
every  other  instance  of  irresistible  impetuosity." 

To  conclude, —  let  our  theological  professors  cease  to 
expend  all  their  energies  in  cramming  their  pupils  with 
Hebrew,  ecclesiastical  history,  and  exegesis,  and  spend 
more  time  in  teaching  them  how  to  communicate  their 
knowledge,  thoughts,  and  feelings  in  a  pleasing  yet 
weighty  and  impressive  manner.  Let  the  student  be 
told  with  continual  iteration,  till  the  truth  is  burned 


210  PULPIT   ORATORY. 

into  his  brain,  that  he  may  be  armed  cap-a-pie  with 
the  most  approved  theological  weapons,  yet  fail  to  win 
a  single  victory  from  lack  of  skill  in  using  them.  A 
few  pebbles  from  a  brook,  in  the  sling  of  a  David,  who 
knows  how  to  send  them  to  the  mark,  are  more  effect 
ive  than  a  Goliath's  spear  and  a  Goliath's  strength  with 
a  Goliath's  clumsiness. 


ORIGINALITY  IN  LITERATURE. 


AMONG  the  complaints  made  against  the  literature 
of  our  day,  one  of  the  commonest  is  that  it  lacks 
originality.     Not   only  the   poets,   as   Tennyson,   Long 
fellow,  and  Alexander  Smith,  are  accused  of  stringing 
their  lyres  to  the  old  tunes,  and  singing  songs  which  have 
been   sung  substantially   a  thousand  times   before,  but 
our  philosophers  and  historians,  our  novelists,  essayists, 
and   theologians,   are   included    in  the   same   sweeping 
condemnation.    There  are  some  cynieal  critics  who  not 
only  claim  that  originality  is  rare, —  almost  as  rare  as 
honesty  in  Congressmen, —  but  contend  that  it  is  nearly, 
if  not  quite,  impossible.    If  an  enthusiastic  reader  goes 
into  raptures  over  what  he  fancies  to  be  some  fresh, 
unique,  and  suggestive  work,  full  of  seed-thoughts,  and 
which  positively  gives  him  a  new  sensation,  these  criti 
cal  Velpeaus  will  proceed  to  dissect  it,  and  show  that 
every  thought  and  illustration  is  traceable  to  some  pre 
ceding  writer  who  flourished  a  hundred  or  a  thousand 
years  ago.     The  raw  material  out  of  which  poems   and 
novels  are  made  is  limited,  they  say,  in  quantity,  and 
speedily  exhausted.     The    number  of   human    passions 
upon  which  the   changes   can   be  rung  is  very  small; 
and  the   situations  to  which  their  play  gives  rise   may 
be  counted    on    the   fingers.     Love   returned,   and   love 
unrequited,   jealousy    and    envy,    anger,   pride,   avarice, 
generosity,  and  revenge,  are  the  hinges  upon  which  all 


212  ORIGINALITY   IN   LITERATURE. 

poems  and  romances  turn,  and  these  passions  have  been 
the  same  ever  since  Adam.  In  Homer,  Virgil,  Plautus, 
and  Terence,  we  have  an  epitome  of  all  the  men  and 
women  on  the  planet;  and  there  is  nothing  new  in  the 
world  except  the  costumes  of  men  and  the  cut  of  their 
hair  and  whiskers.  Even  in  invention,  it  is  urged,  there 
is  nothing  new.  The  moderns  have  utilized  many  old 
ideas,  but  they  have  originated  nothing.  Franklin  stole 
the  thunder,  if  not  the  lightning,  of  somebody  else; 
Colt's  revolver  is  as  old  as  Cromwell's  troopers;  and  it 
is  quite  certain  that  neither  Fulton,  nor  Watt,  nor 
the  Marquis  of  Worcester,  nor  Blasco  de  Garay,  but 
some  countryman  of  Confucius,  living  centuries  ago, 
invented  that  wondrous  engine  through  which  the  lawless 
winds  have  been  made  to  cower  before  the  mightier 
powers  of  steam.  In  short,  in  literature  and  in  science 
it  is  alike  true  that  there  is  nothing  of  which  it  may 
be  said,  "  See,  this  is  new ! "  but,  as  Chaucer  complained, 
five  hundred  years  ago, 

Out  of  the  olde  fields,  as  men  saithe, 
Cometh  all  this  new  corn  fro  year  to  year; 
And  out  of  olde  books,  in  good  faithe, 
Cometh  all  this  newe  science  that  men  lere. 

Is  this  a  just  statement  of  the  case?  Must  we  ad 
mit  that  every  domain  of  thought  was  preempted  before 
the  moderns  appeared, —  that  the  ancients  stole  all  their 
ideas  before  they  had  them, —  and  that  to  seek  for 
originality  in  our  day  is  to  chase  a  will-o-the  wisp? 
To  answer  this  question,  it  is  necessary  to  understand 
clearly  what  "  originality  "  is.  If  by  originality  is  meant 
the  invention  of  something  absolutely  new,  whether  in 
science,  art,  action,  reflection,  method,  or  application, — 
it  is  hard  to  believe  in  its  existence  now  or  at  any 


ORIGINALITY   IN   LITERATUEE.  213 

time  since  the  germs  of  thought  first  began  to  shoot 
forth  in  the  prehistoric  ages.  No  people  on  the  earth 
can  claim,  independently  of  others,  to  have  struck  out 
any  thoughts  for  the  good  of  mankind.  Of  all  the 
nations  of  antiquity,  the  Phoenicians  might  most  plausi 
bly  make  this  boast.  The  first  known  metallurgists, 
they  also  displayed  a  brilliant  genius  for  navigation 
and  trade,  and  introduced  the  letters  of  the  alphabet 
into  Europe.  But  as  to  originality,  they  had  none, 
except  "original  sin."  Possessing  a  powerful  receptive 
nature,  and  imbibing  largely  from  earlier  and  more 
Oriental  peoples,  they  quickly  digested  and  assimilated 
their  borrowed  knowledge,  and,  as  the  great  middle 
men  between  the  East  and  West,  played  an  important 
part.  But,  though  admirable  literary  merchants,  they 
were  not  producers  of  thought.  So,  too,  the  Arabs, 
with  all  their  wonderful  quickness  and  muscularity  of 
intellect,  were  "the  hierophants,  and  not  the  oracle." 
They  were  the  purveyors  and  expounders  of  science  be 
tween  ancient  Greece  and  modern  Europe;  but  they 
gave  to  the  world  nothing  un  thought  of  before. 

Nearly  all  the  great  discoveries  and  original  inven 
tion^  of  modern  times  have  been  shown  to  have  ex 
isted  in  their  germs,  if  not  in  full  bloom,  thousands 
of  years  ago.  Disraeli  believes  that  the  Romans  knew 
the  secret  of  movable  types,  but  would  not  let  it  be 
known,  for  fear  of  the  spread  of  knowledge,  and  the 
loss  of  the  aristocratic  monopoly  of  enlightened  thought. 
De  Quincey  holds  that  printing  was  long  known  to  the 
ancients,  but  made  no  progress  for  want  of  paper. 
Gunpowder  was  a  pyrotechnic  plaything  long  before  it 
was  used  to  kill  men.  Telescopes,  some  scientists  tell 
us,  must  have  been  directed  to  the  stars  of  the  antique 
heavens,  or  their  astronomy  could  not  have  existed. 


214  ORIGINALITY   IN    LITERATURE. 

Alexander's  copy  of  the  Iliad,  inclosed  in  a  nutshell, 
could  hardly  have  been  written  without  a  microscope; 
and  the  gem  through  which  Nero  looked  at  the  distant 
gladiators  was  essentially  an  opera-glass.  "  The  mallea 
bility  of  glass,  the  indelibility  of  colors,  and  fifty  other 
things  of  importance,  dropped  by  the  ancients  into  the 
stream  of  time,"  says  a  well-informed  writer,  "  we  have 
to  fish  up  anew."  Photography,  which  the  nineteenth 
century  claims  as  beyond  all  cavil  its  own  invention,  is 
described  by  a  French  writer  in  1760  with  even  greater 
perfection  of  detail  than  we  can  now  attain  to, —  pho 
tography  producing  color  as  well  as  form;  and  M. 
Fournier  has  shown  that  the  magnetic  telegraph  was 
invented  more  than  two  centuries  ago. 

What  shall  we  say,  then?  That  originality  in  our 
day  is  an  impossibility? — that  Parnassus  has  been 
robbed  of  its  richest  laurels,  and  the  unhappy  writer  of 
this  century  can  only  pick  up  what  bygone  explorers 
have  left  behind?  Yes,  if  by  originality  is  meant  an 
absolute  creation  of  new  material, — an  isolated  act  of 
bare  imitation,  instead  of  an  act  of  adaptation  or 
moulding  so  as  to  resemble  a  new  creation,  and,  in 
deed,  to  be  one.  But  if  by  originality  is  meant  a  just 
selection  and  vitalizing  of  materials  that  already  exist, 
a  fresh  and  novel  combination  of  ideas,  imparting  new 
life  to  what  is  combined, —  and  this  is  the  only  origin 
ality  that  is  or  ever  was  possible  in  any  age, —  then 
the  writers  of  to-day  are  as  original  as  any  that  ever 
held  a  stile  or  dipped  their  pens  in  ink.  To  be  a 
literary  creator,  it  is  not  necessary  that  a  man  should 
make  a  tabula  rasa  of  his  brain.  Genius  would  soon 
starve  and  pine  away,  if  not  ceaselessly  fed  by  the 
memory.  As  Burke  justly  says,  "  there  is  no  faculty 
of  the  mind  which  can  bring  its  energy  into  effect, 


ORIGINALITY   IN   LITERATURE.  215 

unless  the  memory  be  stored  with  ideas  for  it  to  work 
upon;"  to  which  we  may  add  that  the  very  best  pumps 
will  not  play  till  you  pour  in  water  to  start  them. 
Originality  in  the  creative  arts,  as  well  as  in  science, 
may  be  displayed  as  signally  in  method  as  in  subject- 
matter.  To  reproduce  is,  in  fact,  to  produce  again. 
The  process  is  the  same,  provided  that  it  is  carried 
out  with  equal  energy;  and  it  is  simply  nonsense  to 
say  that  vigor  ceases  to  be  vigor  because  it  starts  upon 
a  beaten  track. 

True,  it  is  the  mark  and  the  prerogative  of  genius, 
as  John  Foster  has  said,  to  be  capable  of  lighting  its 
own  fire;  but  it  is  no  mark  or  proof  of  theft  or  lack 
of  inventive  power,  if  it  sometimes  kindles  its  fire  by 
an  electric  spark  caught  from  some  kindred  mind. 
Grant  that  Morse,  for  example,  who  is  regarded  as  the 
inventor  of  the  electric  telegraph,  was  indebted,  like 
Franklin,  Watt,  and  Arkwright  before  him,  to  the  sug 
gestions  of  others;  grant  that  Leverrier,  as  he  searched 
the  boundless  realms  of  space  with  his  telescope  for  a 
spot  in  which  to  locate  the  undiscovered  planet,  availed 
himself  of  the  labors  and  recorded  demonstrations  of 
Newton;  and  that  even  the  starry  Newton  availed  him 
self  of  the  numerical  labors  of  a  humble  contemporary 
at  the  very  moment  when  he  lay  under  suspicion  of 
trying  to  retard  that  individual's  hard-earned  profits 
and  impede  his  fame;  do  these  facts  detract  one  jot  or 
tittle  from  these  great  men's  fame?  By  no  means.  It 
is  true  enough  that  when  Franklin  sent  his  kite  into 
the  clouds,  the  world  was  not  wholly  ignorant  of  the 
laws  of  electricity;  he  had  some  scattered  facts  and 
ideas  to  start  with ;  but  it  was  the  step  beyond  that  gave 
him  immortality.  Admit  that  Morse  stood  on  the 
shoulders,  so  to  speak,  of  Priestley  and  Franklin,  ap- 


216  ORIGINALITY   IN   LITERATURE. 

propriated  the  labors  of  Galvani  and  Volta,  and  even 
derived  from  the  all-suggesting  Jackson,  in  1832,  as 
the  ship  Sully  was  breasting  the  waves,  the  first  hint 
of  the  magnetic  telegraph, —  still  his  merit  is  not  less 
ened.  The  fact  is,  that  in  all  cases  of  invention  the 
praise  of  it  is  due  not  to  the  first  conceiver  of  it,  but 
to  the  last  complete  applier  of  it.  As  Dr.  Paley 
says,  "He  only  discovers  who  proves." — Twenty  men 
thought  of  steamboats,  but  Fulton  is  the  inventor  of 
the  steamboat,  because  he  first  set  a  steamboat  a-going ; 
the  rest  were  dreamers, —  inventors  mentally,  but  not 
inventors  in  the  art. 

All  of  the  great  poets  have  at  some  time  been  ac 
cused  of  being  great  thieves;  but  nothing  can  be  more 
foolish  than  most  of  these  attempts  to  rob  them  of 
their  fame.  Every  great  writer  is  necessarily  indebted 
both  to  his  contemporaries  and  to  his  predecessors. 
The  finest  passages  in  prose  and  poetry  are  often  but 
embellished  recollections  of  other  men's  productions. 
Thought  and  memory,  it  has  been  no  less  finely  than 
justly  said,  are  the  Alpheus  and  the  Arethusa  of  meta 
physics;  commit  any  material  to  the  latter,  and  after  a 
long  period  of  forgetfulness,  by  some  subterranean  tran 
sition,  it  will  appear  floating  on  the  surface  of  the 
former,  as  though  it  had  been  thrown  up  from  no 
other  sources  than  those  of  pure  invention.  Had  Shak- 
speare,  thousand-souled  as  he  was,  been  confined  from 
childhood  to  a  desert  island,  could  he  have  written  the 
poorest  of  his  matchless  dramas;  or  could  Newton,  un 
aided  by  the  preceding  mathematicians,  have  discovered 
the  law  of  gravitation  ?  What,  indeed,  is  every  great 
poem  but  a  compendium  of  the  imagination  of  centu 
ries?  What  the  masterpieces  of  painting,  but  a  com 
bination  of  the  finest  lines  and  the  most  exquisite 


ORIGINALITY   IN   LITERATUBE.  217 

touches  of  earlier  and  inferior  artists, —  or  the  noblest 
works  of  statuary,  but  a  blending  into  one  form  of 
angelic  beauty  of  the  loveliest  features  and  the  most 
graceful  lineaments  wrought  by  hands  and  chisels  long 
ago  crumbled  into  dust  ? 

In  all  ages,  the  greatest  literary  geniuses  have  been 
the  greatest  borrowers.     Omniverous  devourers  of  books, 
with    memories    like    hooks    of    steel,    they    have    not 
scrupled   to  seize   and  to  turn    to  account  every  good 
thought  they  could  pick  up  in  their  readings.    Milton, 
who   has   been  called  "  the   celestial  thief,"   boldly  pla 
giarized  from  Dante  and  Tasso,   and   all  of  them   from 
Homer;   and  who  believes  that  Homer  had  no  reservoir 
of  learning  to  draw  from,  no  mysterious  lake  of  knowl 
edge,  into  which  he  could  now  and  then  throw  a  bucket? 
Goethe  laughed  the  idea  of  absolute  originality  to  scorn, 
and  declared   that  it  was  an   author's  duty  to   use  all 
that  was  suggested  to  him  from  any  quarter.     "What 
is   a   great   man,"   asks   Emerson,    "but    one   of  great 
affinities,  who  takes  up  into  himself  all  arts,  sciences,  •» 
all   knowables,   as  his   food?      *      *      *      Every  book 
is  a  quotation;  and  every  house   is   a  quotation   out  of 
all  forests,  and   mines,  and   stone  quarries;    and   every 
man  is  a  quotation  from  all  his  ancestors."    There   are 
some    minds,    and    those,   too,    really  productive,    that 
require  the  provocation  of  more  suggestive  and  stimu 
lating  ones  to  make  them  work.    They  need  the  fertil 
izing    pollen   of   other   men's    thoughts   to  make  them 
productive.     To  attract  every  available  thing  to  itself  is  a 
natural  characteristic  of  the  magnetic  ardor  of  genius. 

All  these  great  poets  had  enormous  powers  of  assim 
ilation;  and  it  is  evident  to  every  scholar  who  reads 
their  works,  that  the  metal  in  which  they  wrought  was 
not  dug  newly  from  the  earth,  but,  like  the  Corinthian 


218  ORIGINALITY   IN   LITERATURE. 

brass  of  the  ancients,  was  melted  up  from  the  spoils  of 
a  city. 

Occasional  accidental  coincidences  of  thought  and 
expression  will  not  detract  from  a  writer's  just  fame. 
It  is  only  the  habitual  and  conscious  thief,  the  man 
who  lives  by  plunder,  and  who  thus  shows  himself  to 
be  both  weak  and  wicked,  that  merits  the  pillory. 
Literal,  bald  borrowing,  whether  of  the  plan  or  treat 
ment, —  the  substance  or  form, — the  thoughts  or  expres 
sions, —  of  a  work,  is  absolutely  indefensible ;  but  he  is 
not  a  thief  who  borrows  the  ideas  of  a  hundred  other 
men  and  repays  them  with  compound  interest.  It  is 
one  thing  to  purloin  finely-tempered  steel,  and  another 
to  take  a  pound  of  literary  old  iron,  and  convert  it  in 
the  furnace  of  one's  mind  into  a  hundred  watch-springs, 
worth  each  a  thousand  times  as  much  as  the  iron. 
When  genius  borrows,  it  borrows  grandly,  giving  to  the 
borrowed  matter  a  life  and  beauty  it  lacked  before. 
When  Shakspeare  is  accused  of  pilfering,  Landor  replies : 
"Yet  he  was  more  original  than  his  originals.  He 
breathed  upon  dead  bodies,  and  brought  them  into  life." 
It  has  been  said  of  Pope  that,  whatever  jewel  he  appro 
priated,  he  set  it  in  gold.  Perhaps  the  best  definition 
of  legitimate  appropriation  was  given  by  Hegel,  when 
Cousin  was  accused  of  stealing  his  ideas.  "Cousin," 
said  he,  "has  caught  some  small  fishes  in  my  pond, 
but  he  has  drowned  them  in  his  own  sauce."  This  was 
quite  different  from  the  case  of  a  patchwork  essay 
read  by  a  Mr.  Fish,  of  which  an  old  lady  complained 
that  it  was  "so  full  of  pollywogs  that  she  could'nt 
see  the  Fish." 

For  these  reasons,  about  the  meanest  business  a 
literary  man  can  engage  in  is  that  of  arraigning  authors 
for  theft  on  the  score  of  petty  parallelisms  and  coinci- 


ORIGINALITY   IN   LITERATURE.  219 

dences.  The  small  critics  who  stoop  to  this  are  like 
constables  who  thrive  by  catching  thieves;  they  hunt 
down  the  culprits,  not  because  their  moral  sense  is 
outraged,  but  because  they  get  a  fee  for  hanging  the 
offender.  The  instinct  of  imitation, —  that  affinity  for 
beauty  and  brightness,  wherever  found,  which  leads  to 
the  appropriation  and  assimilation  of  other  men's  con 
ceptions, — that  delicacy  of  sympathy,  which  causes  the 
mind  to  be  possessed  and  haunted  by  their  beautiful 
thoughts  and  images  to  a  degree  that  defies  expulsion, — 
is  one  of  the  surest  marks  of  genius. 

"When  Moli^re  was  taunted  with  having  plagiarized 
a  scene  here,  a  situation  there,  a  character  elsewhere, 
he  replied:  "  Je  reprends  mon  bien  ou  je  le  trouve, — 
I  recover  my  property  wherever  I  find  it."  The  whole 
philosophy  of  plagiarism  lies  in  that  sentence.  A  man 
of  genius  takes  unhesitatingly  whatever  he  can  organ 
ize;  a  vulgar  plagiarist  is  a  vulgar  thief,  a  liar,  and  a 
braggart,  calling  upon  men  to  admire  the  peacock 
splendor  of  his  wretched  daw  nature.  Nine-tenths  of 
what  is  denounced  as  plagiarism  is  only  such  as  the 
plants  exercise  upon  the  earth  and  air,  or  the  bee 
upon  the  flowers  and  honeysuckles, — to  organize  the 
stolen  material  into  higher  forms,  and  make  it  suitable 
for  the  food  of  man. 

The  fact  is,  our  literature,  and  all  literature,  abounds 
with  those  similarities  of  thought  and  expression  which 
are  so  hastily  denounced  as  larcenies.  Eoman  litera 
ture  was  one  immense  plagiarism.  The  Roman  drama 
tists  adapted  Greek  plays,  just  as  the  English  now 
adapt  the  French.  Virgil  "conveyed"  many  of  his 
most  beautiful  passages,  picturesque  images,  and  strik 
ing  epithets  from  the  old  Greek  and  Latin  poets. 
Chaucer  borrowed  from  the  Italian  and  Provencaux 


220  ORIGINALITY   IN   LITERATURE. 

romances  and  the  fabliaux  of  the  middle  ages.  Paley, 
Butler,  Southey,  Gray,  helped  themselves  freely  to  other 
men's  thoughts.  "Garth  did  not  write  his  own  Dis 
pensary."  Ben  Jonson  got  the  materials  of  his  mosaics 
from  the  classics.  His  song,  "Drink  to  me  only  with 
thine  eyes,'*  is  from  the  love-letters  of  Philostratus ; 
"Still  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest,"  is  from  a  Latin 
poem  of  Jean  Bonnefons;  and  two  of  his  others  are 
boldly  borrowed  from  Catullus.  Happy  adaptation,  old 
Ben  believed,  was  as  great  an  act  of  genius  as  inven 
tion.  Mirabeau  got  the  ablest  of  his  speeches  from 
Dumont.  Fox  was  often  primed  by  Burke,  and  Burke 
by  Bolingbroke.  Critics  with  provokingly  tenacious 
memories  have  declared  that  many  of  Eobert  Hall's 
gems  of  illustration  were  "conveyed"  from  Burke,  Grat- 
tan,  and  Warburton ;  and  that  some  of  them  have  been 
reconveyed  by  Macaulay  from  Hall.  Coleridge  "lifted" 
from  Frederica  Brun  the  framework  of  his  glorious 
hymn  to  Mont  Blanc.  It  has  been  asserted  that  all 
the  thinking  in  Chalmers's  astronomical  discourses  is 
cribbed  from  Andrew  Fuller's  TJie  Gospel  Its  Own  Wit^ 
ness. 

Byron,  who  helped  himself  freely  to  other  men's 
ideas,  declared  that  all  pretensions  to  originality  are 
ridiculous.  Tom  Moore  once  caught  him  with  a  book 
filled  with  paper  marks,  and  asked  him  what  he  was 
doing.  Byron  replied,  "Only  a  book  from  which  I  am 
trying  to  crib,  which  I  do  whenever  I  can,  and  that  is 
the  way  I  get  the  character  of  an  original  poet."  Moore, 
in  relating  this  incident,  says  of  Byron's  reply,  "Though, 
in  imputing  to  himself  deliberate  plagiarism,  he  was,  of 
course,  but  jesting,  it  was,  I  am  inclined  to  think,  his 
practice,  when  engaged  in  the  composition  of  any  work, 
thus  to  excite  his  vein  by  the  perusal  of  others  on  the 


ORIGINALITY   IN   LITERATURE.  221 

same  subject  or  plan,  from  which  the  slightest  hint, 
caught  from  his  imagination  as  he  read,  was  sufficient 
to  kindle  there  such  a  train  of  thought  as,  but  for 
that  spark,  had  never  been  awakened,  and  of  which  he 
himself  soon  forgot  the  source." 

A  writer  in  the  British  and  Foreign  Review,  speak 
ing  of  this  laboring  after  originality,  says  Burton's 
Anatomy  of  Melancholy  is  almost  a  centoism  of  ex 
tracts,  "yet,  like  the  irregular  forms  and  intricate  colors 
of  cathedral  windows,  they  produce  a  solemn  and  re 
ligious  harmony,  of  which  the  effect  is  more  transparent 
than  the  cause  or  the  components."  Dean  Swift  was  a 
notorious  poacher.  His  voyages  to  Brobdingnag  and 
Laputa  were  borrowed  from  Cyreno  Bergerac.  M.  Veri- 
cour,  in  his  work  on  Modern  French  Literature,  tells 
us  that  Rousseau  borrowed  largely  from  Sidney  and 
Locke;  Byron  borrowed  from  Rousseau  and  Goethe's 
Faust.  The  German,  Klopstock,  borrowed  from  Mil 
ton;  Herder  from  Vico.  Goethe  openly  acknowledged 
his  indebtedness  to  Shakspeare.  M.  Vericour,  speaking 
of  Sir  Walter  Scott's  habit  of  appropriating  fragments 
of  history  scornfully  rejected  by  modern  historians,  and 
weaving  them  into  his  romances,  beautifully  illustrates 
this  departure  from  originality  by  relating  that,  in  the 
Lincoln  Cathedral,  there  is  a  beautifully-painted  win 
dow,  which  was  made  by  an  apprentice  out  of  pieces 
of  glass  rejected  by  his  master.  It  was  so  far  superior 
to  every  other  window  in  the  church,  that,  according 
to  the  tradition,  the  vanquished  original  artist  killed 
himself  from  mortification. 

Literature  is  filled  with  stock  ideas  and  illustrations, 
which  have  become  the  property  of  whoever  chooses 
to  use  them.  Calhoun's  "masterly  inactivity"  is  only  a 
translation  of  Horace's  strenua  inertia.  Webster's  "  sea 


. 

222  ORIGINALITY  VJN   LITERATURE. 

'*  t- 

of  upturned  faces  "  was  supposed  jto  be  very  fine  and 
very  new,  until  some  literary  retriever  scented  it  in  the 
page§-of  Scott.  Paley's  watch  was  obtained  on  tick 
from  Dr.  Bernard  -Nieuwentyt,  a  learned  Dutchman. 
Bacon's  saying,  "  Antiquitas  seculi  juventus  mundi  "  is 
as  old  as  Giordano  Bruns,  wh<rsaid  that  the  first  peo 
ple  of  the  world  should  rather  be  called  the  youngsters 
than  the  ancients.  Talleyrand's  famous  saying,  "Lan 
guage  was  given  to  man  to  conceal  his  thought,"  has  a 
long  pedigree.  It  has  been  traced  to  Goldsmith,  to 
Voltaire,  to  South,  to  Job,  and,  we  know  not  how  many 
others.  Macaulay  is  deemed  in  original  writer,  yet  few 
authors  have  been  indebted  more  to  books  for  illus 
trations.  His  ,^ew  *  Zealander  dates  back  to  Kirke 
"White,  to  Shelley,  to  Horace  Walpole,  and  to  Volney. 
Everybody  laughed  over  his*  famous  hit  at  Dr.  Nares, 
but  few  who  were  tickled  by  the  conceit  suspected  that 
he  had  borrowed  the  weapon  he  was  using.  Some 
mouser  in  mediaeval  history  at  last  discovered  that  the 
Italian,  Boccalin,  was  the  author  of  the  sarcasm.  He 
pretended  that  the  laconic  Venetian  Senate  once  con 
demned  an  unfortunate  author  who  had  been  convicted 
of  using  ttfree  words  where  two  were  sufficient,  to  read 
once  over  the  history  of  the  war  of  Pisa  by  Guicciar- 
dini.  The  culprit  with  great  agony  labored  through  a 
single  page,  and  then  prayed  his  judges  to  commute 
his  sentence  to  labor  at  the  galleys  for  life.  Another 
saying  is  quoted  from  Macaulay,  to  the  effect  that  it 
was  not  so  much  the  pain  given  to  the  bear,  as  the 
pleasure  experienced  by  the  spectators,  that  led  the 
Roundheads,  during  the  English  civil  wars,  to  put  a 
stop  to  bear-baiting.  The  same  remark  was  made  by 
Hume  long  before,  and  was  probably  adopted  by  him 
from  some  antecedent  author. 


ORIGINALITY  -Itf  LITERATURE.  223 

*     ^        »      '•"*       •     , 

The  complaint  so  often  made  that  "  there  is  n*6tbing 
new  under  the  sun "  is  itself  old, —  as  old  as  literature 
itself.  Ovid  complains  of  the  early  writers  forfiaving 
"stolen  all  the  good  things;"  the  early  writers  stole  from 
the  Greeks;  the  Greeks( cribbed  from  the  Egyptians;  flie 
Egyptians  filched  from  the  antediluvians;  and  they,  we 
suppose,  purloined  from  the  Prometheus  who  stole  the 
fire  directly  from  heaven:  <It'is  easy  to  raise  the  hue- 
and-cry  of  plagiarism;  but^in  many  cases,  the  si^ilari-^ 
ties  upon  which  the  literary  tipstaff  puts  his  finger  are 
no  more  thefts  than  a  chemical  compound,  the  result 
of  mysterious  affinities,  is  identical  with  the  elements 
that  enter  into  it.  "  There  is  all  the  difference  between 
suggestion  and  plagiarism,"  says  'Henry  Kogers,  "that 
there  is  between  making  blood  from  blood,  and  receiv 
ing  it  into  the  veins  by  transfusion."  "  There  are  some 
persons,"  says  Pascal,  "  who  would  never  haye  an  author 
speak  of  things  of  which  others  have  spoken ;  otherwise 
they  accuse  him  of  telling  them  nothing  that  is  new. 
But  if  the  subjects  he  treats  of  be  not  new,  the  method 
of  treating  them  may  be  new.  When  two  men  play  at* 
tennis,  they  both  play  with  the  same  ball,  but  one  directs1 
it  best.  I  should  as  soon  accuse  him  of  using  old  words ; 
as  if  the  same  ideas  did  not  form  another  body  of  dis 
course  by  a  different  arrangement  of  them,  just  as  truly 
as  the  same  words  express  quite  different  ideas  by  a 
different  arrangement." 


IS  LITERATURE  ILL-PAID? 


"V7~ES!  will  be  the  prompt  and  indignant  reply  of 
JL  nineteen  out  of  twenty  of  those  who,  as  Lamb  says, 
suck  their  sustenance,  like  sick  people,  through  a  quill : 
— and  they  will  be  astonished  that  any  one  should  ask 
the  question.  Did  not  Scott  long  ago  say  that  litera 
ture  does  well  enough  as  a  staff,  but  not  as  a  crutch, — 
as  a  dilettante  pursuit,  but  not  as  a  means  of  getting 
one's  bread  and  butter?  Have  you  forgotten  the  fate 
of  Chatterton,  Otway,  and  Savage  ? —  how  the  "  impran- 
sus"  Johnson  struggled  through  his  fifty  years  of  pov 
erty? —  and  what  an  amount  of  hack-work  Goldsmith 
did  to  keep  the  wolf  from  his  door  while  he  was  pro 
ducing  those  exquisite  poems,  essays,  and  fictions,  which, 
though  they  have  made  his  name  immortal,  could  not 
keep  him  from  dying  £3,000  in  debt?  Is  it  not  noto 
rious  that  Shelley's  writings  brought  him  no  profit, 
having  hardly  a  hundred  buyers?  Did  not  Schiller 
translate  at  a  shilling  a  page?  Has  not  Goethe  told 
us  that  his  works  were  "  an  expense  to  him,"  though 
all  Europe  rang  with  his  name?  Did  not  Godwin, 
while  startling  England  with  his  extraordinary  works, 
earn  his  crust  by  bookselling  ?  Would  M.  Jasmin  have 
been  able  long  to  delight  France  with  his  songs,  had  he 
abandoned  his  humble  calling  of  a  hair-dresser?  Have 
you  never  heard  how  the  spirituelle  Maginn  lived  and 
died,  how  Hogg's  last  moments  were  passed,  and  that 


IS   LITERATURE   ILL-PAID?  225 

he  who  sang  the  "Song  of  the  Shirt"  with  a  pathos 
that  thrilled  all  Europe,  died  with  the  sad  plaint  that, 
though  his  friends  might  be  able  "to  urn  a  lively 
Hood "  after  his  death,  he  could  not  do  it  while  living  ? 
Is  not  Sheridan  Knowles's  hand-to-hand  struggle  with 
want  yet  fresh  in  the  public  memory,  and  do  we  not 
remember  the  three  Caudle  Letters  of  Laman  Blanchard, 
penned  in  his  wife's  dying  hours  to  keep  the  Sheriff 
from  his  house  ? 

Again,  if  literature  is  well  paid  in  this  nineteenth 
century,  why  can  it  boast  no  profound,  encyclopedic 
scholars,  no  great  poets,  like  those  of  past  ages?  We 
have  swarms  of  essayists  and  feuilletonists,  magazine 
scribblers,  who  manufacture  fiction  by  the  hundred 
weight,  and  more  thoughtful  writers  who  exhaust  their 
mental  wealth  on  reviews;  but  where  are  our  great 
epic  and  tragic  poets  ?  Where  are  our  great  linguists  ? 
Where  is  our  Scaliger,  our  Jones,  our  Person,  or  our 
Parr?  Would  the  exquisite  and  myriad-volumed  learn 
ing  of  the  second  keep  him,  in  these  iron,  utilitarian 
times,  from  starvation;  or  would  his  command  of  all 
the  treasures  of  Greek  lore  insure  to  the  third  any 
place  or  station  commensurate  with  his  merits?  Have 
we  not  seen  the  greatest  scholars  of  the  age  starving 
in  England  in  miserable  curacies,  and  in  other  coun 
tries  in  miserable  professorships,  while  lawyers  of  less 
ability  have  clad  themselves  "  in  purple  and  fine  linen," 
ridden  in  coaches  drawn  by  long-tailed,  silky-coated 
steeds,  and  fared  sumptuously  every  day? 

In  replying  to  these  questions,  and  affirming  that 
literature,  on  the  whole,  is  well  paid,  we  shall  leave 
out  of  consideration  the  amateurs  who  "  write  for  glory, 
and  print  for  fun,"  and  speak  only  of  the  toilers,  those 
who  devote  themselves  to  literature  as  a  regular  calling, 


226  IS   LITERATURE   ILL-PAID? 

a  means  of  subsistence  and  of  self-advancement.  We 
maintain  that  Paternoster  Kow  is  not  a  misnomer,  for 
which,  on  account  of  its  step-motherly  heartlessness, 
Noverca  Kow  might  be  aptly  substituted;  that,  what 
ever  provocation  Campbell  might  have  had  for  saying 
that  he  forgave  Napoleon  his  crimes  because  he  once 
shot  a  bookseller,  it  is  not  true  that  publishers  drink 
their  sherry  out  of  authors'  skulls;  that  literature,  far 
from  being  necessarily  associated  with  vexation  and 
penury,  is,  when  pursued  steadfastly  and  conscientiously, 
as  sure  a  means  of  support  and  of  advancement  as  law, 
medicine,  or  trade. 

In  considering  the  profitableness  of  the  literary  call 
ing,  it  should  be  remembered  that  there  is  hardly  any 
other  which  requires  so  little  capital  for  its  pursuit. 
The  lawyer  must  have  an  office,  and  at  least  an  apology 
for  a  library,  to  say  nothing  of  furniture,  signs,  and 
advertisements.  The  physician  must  have  all  these,  and, 
in  addition,  a  horse  and  carriage,  besides  being  well 
dressed,  for  nobody  will  trust  in  his  skill  till,  by  an 
air  of  prosperity,  he  indicates  that  he  is  trusted  by 
others.  Even  the  artist  must  have  his  studio  and  a 
steady  supply  of  canvas  and  paint.  But  all  the  capital 
the  writer  needs  is  a  few  quires  of  paper,  a  steel  pen, 
and  five  cents  worth  of  ink.  If  he  lives  in  a  city,  the 
public  libraries  will  furnish  him  with  books ;  he  may 
travel  in  horse-cars,  live  in  the  fourth  story  of  a  cheap 
boarding-house,  and  dress,  if  he  pleases,  like  a  scare 
crow,  yet,  if  he  have  real  ability,  meet  with  brilliant 
success.  But,  setting  aside  these  compensations,  let  us 
see  whether  literary  labor  during  the  last  two  or  three 
hundred  years  has  been  well  requited.  To  begin  with 
the  "Father  of  English  Poetry,"  Dan  Chaucer,  though 
his  last  days  were  clouded  by  embarrassment,  yet, 


IS   LITERATURE   ILL-PAID?  227 

during  most  of  his  life,  he  held  profitable  offices,  and 
was  even  employed  in  diplomatic  negotiations.  Shak- 
speare  we  do  not  cite  as  a  proof  of  our  position,  because, 
though  born  a  wool-stapler's  son,  he  retired  with  a 
large  fortune.  He  never  published  his  works,  except 
on  the  stage,  and  made  all  his  money  by  acting  and 
shrewd  investments.  Spenser  received  from  Queen 
Elizabeth  a  grant  of  three  thousand  acres  of  land  in 
Ireland, —  which,  it  is  true,  was  very  much  like  giving 
him  a  domain  in  Florida,  inhabited  by  rattlesnakes  and 
prowling  Indians;  but  then  he  also  received  a  pension 
of  fifty  pounds,  equal  to  three  hundred  pounds  or  more 
now,  for  burning  incense  to  the  "Maiden  Queen,"  and 
transforming,  by  the  magic  of  genius,  her  red  wig  into 
"yellow  locks,  crisped  like  golden  wire;"  and  though 
he  was  driven  by  Tyrone's  Rebellion  to  die  in  sorrow 
and  distress  in  London,  yet  he  provoked  his  fate  by 
his  injustice  to  a  proud  and  savage  people,  as  Clerk  of 
the  Council  and  Sheriff  of  Cork,  and  by  his  recom 
mendation  of  coercive  measures  against  them  in  his 
"View  of  the  State  of  Ireland."  How  much  money 
"rare  Ben  Jonson"  received  we  do  not  know;  but  it 
is  probable  that  only  his  continual  guzzling  of  canary 
wine,  and  other  intemperate  habits,  kept  him  from  be 
coming  rich. 

In  the  next  century  we  find  Milton  receiving  but 
£13  for  his  grand  epic;  but  we  must  remember  that 
he  held  an  important  State  office,  and  enjoyed  a  degree 
of  consideration  not  estimable  in  money.  Moreover,  he 
was  eminently  unpractical,  and  had  a  boundless  scorn 
for  those  "drossy  spirits"  that  are  forever  seeking  to 
turn  a  penny, —  that  "need  the  lure  and  whistle  of 
earthly  preferment,  like  those  animals  that  fetch  and 
carry  for  a  morsel."  Dryden,  who  received  £1,200  for 


228  IS    LITERATURE    ILL-PAID? 

his  translation  of  Virgil,  and  who,  as  poet-laureate  and 
stockholder  in  a  theatre,  had  a  fixed  income  of  £1,000 
a  year,  was  not  ill-paid.  With  a  brain  of  such  fecundity 
that  he  could  dash  off  the  "  Ode  on  St.  Cecilia's  Day " 
at  a  single  jet,  he  must  have  won  riches  as  well  as 
honors  but  for  the  shrew  who  called  him  husband. 
The  hunch-backed,  spider-legged  dwarf  of  Twicken 
ham,  who  would  have  starved  in  almost  any  other  call 
ing,  got  £8,000, —  an  almost  fabulous  sum  in  those 
times, — for  his  translation  of  the  Iliad  only.  Swift 
attained  to  ecclesiastical  preferment,  and  might  have 
had  the  object  of  his  heart's  desire,  a  bishopric,  had  he 
not  shocked  Archbishop  Sharp  by  his  profanity  and  in 
decency,  and  learned  furens  quid  femina  possit  by  lam 
pooning  the  Duchess  of  Somerset.  Addison  rose  to  be 
Secretary  of  State,  and  Prior,  from  a  pot-house  boy, 
became  like  our  Irving,  Motley,  Gushing,  and  Bancroft, 
an  ambassador. 

Johnson,  it  is  true,  had  a  long,  up-hill  fight  against 
adversity.  It  was  not  the  golden  age  of  authors  when 
he  ate  his  dinners  behind  the  screen  in  Cave's  parlor, 
back  of  the  shop,  because  he  was  too  much  out  at  the 
elbows  to  be  presented  at  a  tradesman's  table;  and 
when  Savage,  as  if  to  show  by  contrast  the  inferiority 
of  civilized  life  to  the  days  when 

"  Wild  through  the  woods  the  noble  savage  ran," 

roamed  about  the  streets  of  London  all  night,  for  want 
of  a  shilling  to  pay  for  a  lodging.  But  Johnson  con 
quered  success  at  last,  and  his  position,  when  he  had 
scaled  the  literary  Alps,  and  could  scornfully  reject  the 
tardily  proffered  aid  of  Chesterfield, —  not  to  speak  of  a 
later  period  when  he  was  the  seven-tailed  bashaw  of 
the  literary  realm, —  was  an  enviable  one.  Hume,  from 


IS   LITERATURE    ILL-PAID?  229 

absolute  obscurity,  .raised  himself  by  his  writings  to 
considerable  wealth,  and  to  high  offices  which  brought 
him  more, —  so  that  he  died  with  an  income  of  a 
thousand  a  year,  and  leaving  an  estate  of  fifteen 
thousand  pounds.  Goldsmith  was  always  in  hot  water, 
and  died  three  thousand  pounds  in  debt;  but  he  re 
ceived  large,  and  even  splendid  sums  for  his  writings; 
his  society  was  courted  by  the  most  brilliant  wits, 
artists,  statesmen,  and  men  of  letters;  and  even  when 
wasting  his  exquisite  genius  as  a  literary  hack,  he 
might  have  won  an  independence  but  for  his  extreme 
improvidence,  his  almost  childish  generosity,  his  passion 
for  pleasure  and  fine  clothes,  and,  above  all,  his  pro 
pensity  for  gambling. 

Coming  to  the  nineteenth  century,  we  find  Sir  Wal 
ter  Scott,  who,  as  a  barrister,  would  probably  never 
have  been  heard  of  outside  of  Scotland,  earning  a  world 
wide  fame,  fabulous  sums  of  money,  and  a  title,  as  an 
author.  Had  he  trusted  to  literature  only,  instead  of 
dreading  its  precariousness,  and  becoming  a  publisher, 
he  might  have  died  worth  a  hundred  thousand  pounds, 
and  realized  his  life-long  dream  of  a  landed  and  titled 
family.  Again,  look  at  Wordsworth  and  Southey.  The 
former  was  never  rich,  but  some  admirer  of  his  genius 
or  office-holder  became  always  conveniently  defunct  at 
every  crisis  in  his  finances,  leaving  him  money  or  a 
place,  and  he  lived  an  eminently  dignified  and  happy 
life.  The  latter,  a  man  of  second-rate  genius,  but  of 
colossal  industry,  won  comfort  if  not  affluence,  by  his 
pen,  and  when  disposed  to  grumble  at  his  enforced 
drudgery  at  literary  ephemera,  used  to  exclaim,  "Pa 
tience!— it  is,  after  all,  better  than  pleading  in  a 
stinking  court  of  law,  or  being  called  up  at  midnight 
to  a  patient.  It  is  better  than  being  a  soldier,  or  a 


230  IS    LITERATURE    ILL-PAID? 

sailor,  better  than  calculating  profit  and  loss  on  a 
counter, — better,  in  short,  than  anything  but  independ 
ence."  Would  Campbell,  who  spoke  so  spitefully  of 
publishers,  have  lived  in  the  same  style,  moved  in  the 
same  circles,  and  been  petted  as  he  was,  had  he  been 
a  poor  teacher  or  preacher?  Yet  to  one  of  the  latter 
callings  he  seemed  destined  when,  a  poor,  friendless 
youth  at  a  Scottish  University,  he  had  not  yet  by  his 
first  poem  won  friends  and  fame.  Jeffrey,  mainly 
through  his  literary  celebrity,  became  rich  and  a  Judge. 
The  author  of  Lalla  Rookh  got  a  large  income  from 
his  writings,  besides  a  pension  of  £300;  Byron  received 
princely  sums  from  Mr.  Murray,  coining  even  his  mis 
anthropy  and  "blue  devils"  into  guineas;  and  if  Cole 
ridge  was  always  steeped  in  poverty,  it  was  because  he 
was  morally  as  well  as  physically  out  at  the  elbows, 
and  so  wayward  and  capricious,  so  utterly  untrustwor 
thy,  that  he  could  never  have  kept  his  head  above 
water  in  any  calling. 

Has  any  profession  "paid"  better  than  the  literary, 
all  things  considered,  during  the  last  fifty  years  ?  Look 
at  the  large  sums  which  Macaulay  received,  besides  a 
coveted  title  and  a  seat  in  Parliament!  Think  of  the 
enormous  receipts  and  the  world-wide  fame  of  Dickens, 
originally  a  poor  and  obscure  newspaper  reporter! 
Think  of  the  fortune  acquired  by  Fenimore  Cooper! 
Consider  the  price  paid  to  Tennyson  for  a  single  poem, 
or  to  Disraeli  for  a  single  novel,  the  large  earnings  of 
Miss  Evans,  of  Lewes,  Trollope,  Dumas,  Miss  Braddon, 
Fronde,  Reade,  Ruskin,  Yates,  Milman,  Mill,  and  the 
two  Bulwers,  especially  Lord  Lytton !  The  latter  pub 
lished  nearly  seventy  volumes,  some  of  them  upon  sub 
jects  exacting  much  special  research ;  and  for  many  of 
his  novels  received  £1,500  each,  besides  winning  a  Bar- 


IS   LITERATURE   ILL-PAID?  231 

onetcy  and  a  seat  in  Parliament  as  the  result  of  his 
literary  distinction.  And  yet  how  hard,  think  you,  did 
Bulwer  work  ?  Never,  he  tells  us,  so  laboriously  as  to 
degenerate  into  a  slave  of  the  pen,  a  mere  literary 
drudge.  He  won  his  proud  position  by  devoting,  as  a 
rule,  not  over  three  hours  a  day  to  reading  and  writing; 
and  yet  Bulwer  was  not  a  man  of  genius.  He  was  only 
a  man  of  prodigious  talent,  who  narrowly  escaped  being 
a '  genius. 

Think,  again,  of  the  generous  sums  paid  in  our 
own  country  to  Irving,  Mrs.  Stowe,  Motley,  Prescott, 
Emerson,  Longfellow,  and  hundreds  of  minor  literary 
magnates,  many  of  whom  have  swelled  their  income  by 
lectures,  not  a  few  of  whom  have  been  Ambassadors, 
Consuls,  etc.,  etc.,  and  all  of  whom  have  held  a  position 
in  society  which  no  amount  of  mere  wealth  would  have 
secured  to  them !  Look  at  the  remuneration  of  author 
ship.,  in  France,  where,  it  is  said,  Victor  Hugo  was  paid 
$80,000  for  "Les  Miserables";  where  Lamartine  earned 
and  squandered  a  fortune;  where  Dumas,  George  Sand, 
Paul  Feval,  and  Eugene  Sue  have  been  paid  enormous 
sums ;  and  where  Scribe  left  to  his  heirs  $800,000 !  In 
view  of  these  facts  is  it  just  to  whine  about  the  beg 
garly  rewards  of  literature,  and  the  doom  of  indigence 
and  starvation  which  are  so  often  said  to  hang  over 
those  who  give  themselves  to  pen  and  ink  ? 

But,  says  an  objector,  the  instances  you  have  men 
tioned  of  well-remunerated  authorship  are  exceptional. 
You  omit  all  mention  of  the  innumerable  scribblers 
who  have  stranded  on  the  sands  of  popular  neglect; 
you  cite  all  the  prizes  in  the  lottery,  and  say  nothing 
about  the  blanks.  What  of  Collins,  of  Burns,  of  Clare, 
Nicoll,  and  Poe?  In  reply,  we  readily  admit  that 
some  men  of  letters  have  lived  lives  of  penury,  ending 


232  IS   LITERATURE   ILL-PAID? 

in  starvation, —  that  some  of  the  works  which  have 
charmed  the  world,  have  been  written  with  the  heart's 
blood  of  their  authors.  But  are  such  failures  the 
doom  of  literary  men  only  ?  Do  we  not  see  them  in 
every  calling  and  walk  of  life?  Are  there  no  starving 
doctors  who  find  it  harder  to  keep  the  vital  spark  in 
their  own  bodies  than  in  those  of  their  patients, —  no 
lawyers,  of  whom  some  future  Gray  may  truthfully  sing : 

But  ah  I  to  them  no  clerk  his  golden  page 
Rich  with  retaining  fees  did  e'er  unroll ; 

Chill  negligence  repressed  their  legal  rage, 
And  froze  the  quibbling  current  of  the  soul? 

Has  not  the  Church  its  army  of  martyrs, —  pastors 
steeped  in  poverty  to  the  lips,  yet  having  as  many 
mouths  to  feed  as  the  anti-Malthusian  John  Rogers? 
Is  money  a  drug  with  every  druggist, —  is  every  tailor 
as  familiar  with  turkey  as  with  goose, —  and  are  teachers 
never  impecunious?  Is  an<y  fact  better  established  than 
that  ninety-five  out  of  every  hundred  merchants  quit 
business  in  disgust,  or  become  bankrupt?  Not  much 
is  said  of  the  unhappy  lot  of  these  men ;  but  we  hear 
a  continual  ding-dong  about  the  miseries  of  authors. 

The  New  York  World,  in  speaking  of  the  pecuniary 
receipts  of  the  authors  of  that  metropolis,  says  that 
they  do  not  average  five  hundred  dollars  a  year.  "No 
profession,"  it  adds,  "even  when  successful,  is  so  preca 
rious, —  demands  greater  brain-labor  at  smaller  compen 
sation.  There  are  dozens  of  literary  men  in  this  city, 
whose  names  are  popularly  familiar,  living  on  incomes 
that  a  stone-cutter  would  laugh  at."  This,  we  believe, 
is  an  exaggerated  statement;  but  allowing  it  to  be  sub 
stantially  true,  why  is  the  fact  thus  ?  "We  cannot  help 
thinking  that,  in  a  great  majority  of  cases,  it  is  the  fault 


IS   LITERATURE   ILL-PAID?  233 

of  the  literary  men  themselves, —  of  their  own  impru 
dence.  When  a  vulgar  mortal,  a  tailor,  mechanic,  or 
stone-cutter,  despises  economy,  and  spends  in  one  day 
the  earnings  of  ten,  he  goes  to  wreck.  He  knows  per 
fectly  well  that  no  matter  how  hard  he  may  work,  unless 
he  carefully  husbands  his  receipts,  and  jealously  guards 
against  the  little  leaks  of  useless  expenditure,  he  can 
never  become  independent.  Why  should  the  man  of 
genius  expect  to  be  exempted  from  this  rule?  Does  he 
expect  a  miracle  to  be  worked,  or  rather  a  series  of 
miracles,  to  save  him  from  the  consequences  of  his 
own  acts  ? 

Look  again  at  Goldsmith.  How  is  it  possible  for 
any  man  to  thrive  who  squanders  his  money  so  reck 
lessly  as  he  did  his?  Emptying  his  pockets  as  soon 
as  they  were  filled,  he  was  eternally  harassed  by 
creditors;  and  though  receiving  large  sums  for  his  writ 
ings,  had  always  his  daily  bread  to  earn.  No  sooner 
had  the  proceeds  of  the  " Good-Natured  Man"  come 
into  his  hands  than  the  bulk  was  spent  in  purchasing 
and  furnishing  with  elegance  a  set  of  chambers  in  the 
Temple,  paying  for  this  four  hundred  pounds,  at  a  time 
when  he  had  just  been  sorely  distressed  by  his  debts. 
At  another  time,  when  he  had  not  a  shilling  in  his 
pocket,  he  gave  away  his  bed-clothes  to  a  poor  woman, 
and  was  found  sleeping  on  the  feathers  of  his  bed, 
with  his  arms  thrust  through  holes  in  the  tick.  Gold 
smith  might  have  been  independent  had  he  not  thrown 
away  his  earnings.  True,  he  died  three  thousand  pounds 
in  debt,  as  we  have  already  stated;  but  when  was  any 
other  man  in  similar  circumstances  so  trusted? 

There  are  scores  of  literary  men  at  the  present  day 
of  whom  Goldsmith  was  a  prototype.  They  realize  for 
years  a  fair  or  a  large  income ;  they  live  beyond  it ;  they 


234  IS   LITERATURE   ILL-PAID? 

get  into  debt,  and  are  dogged  by  sheriffs;  they  borrow 
of  their  friends  till  they  can  borrow  no  longer;  house 
less,  moneyless,  shabby,  and  hungry,  they  join  in  the 
cry  about  the  miserable  rewards  of  literature  and  the 
woes  of  literary  men.  Yet  who  does  not  see  that,  till 
the  laws  of  nature  are  reversed,  they  cannot  reasonably 
expect,  unless  they  themselves  change,  a  change  in  their 
condition  ? 

It  is  a  misfortune  of  the  literary  profession  that  it 
is  one  to  which  hardly  any  person  is  bred.  It  is  re 
cruited  largely  by  persons  who,  having  tried  several 
other  callings  and  failed,  adopt  this  as  a  pis-aller,  or 
because  they  have,  or  fancy  they  have,  for  it  a  natural 
taste.  It  is  made  up,  in  short,  of  the  vagrant  talent 
of  the  world.  The  complaint  of  Pope,  and  of  Horace 
before  him,  is  too  true  of  the  Bohemians  of  to-day: 

He  served  a  'prenticeship  who  sets  up  shop ; 
Ward  tried  on  puppies  and  the  poor  his  drop ; 
But  those  who  cannot  write,  and  those  who  can, 
All  rhyme,  and  scrawl,  and  scribble  to  a  man. 

It  is  well,  perhaps,  that  there  is  such  a  ISHopital 
des  Invalides ,  such  a  House  of  Kefuge,  for  the  lawyers, 
doctors,  clergymen,  and  others,  who  have  found  out 
that,  in  the  pursuit  of  their  callings,  the  round  men 
get  into  the  square  holes.  It  is  fortunate  that  there  is 
one  kind  of  business  in  which  any  man  who  has  a 
nimble  brain,  a  quire  of  paper,  a  steel  pen,  and  an  ink- 
bottle,  can  set  up  shop.  But,  having  adopted  this  call 
ing,  the  writer  should  consecrate  himself  to  it  reli 
giously.  He  should  give  up  his  gipsy  habits,  his  con 
tempt  for  rule  and  system,  and  recognize  the  iron 
conditions  that  hem  every  man  in.  He  should  realize 
that  he  has  a  life  of  toil  before  him,  and  brace  himself 


IS   LITERATURE   ILL-PAID?  235 

to  it  with  all  the  coolness  and  energy  of  a  man  of  the 
world.  He  should  see,  and  profoundly  feel,  that,  while 
he  has  many  advantages  over  other  toilers,  in  the  ability 
to  command  his  time,  and  go  to  bed  when  he  has  a 
headache  or  a  heart-ache,  he  is  not,  at  other  times,  to 
be  continually  dwelling  among  the  roses  and  lilies  of 
life,  but  must  grapple  with  its  stern  realities. 

He  should  never  forget  that  on  him,  as  on  his 
brethren  of  coarser  clay,  the  world  will  press  with  its 
prosaic  needs;  that  the  tax-gatherer  will  visit  him  as 
well  as  others;  that,  if  he  run  in  debt  at  Christmas 
time,  around  his  head  will  drive  a  snow-storm  of  bills. 
It  has  been  well  said  that  "the  finest  expression  will 
not  liquidate  a  butcher's  account.  If  Apollo  puts  his 
name  to  a  bill,  he  must  meet  it  when  it  becomes  due, 
or  go  into  the  gazette."  The  literary  adventurer,  there 
fore,  should  abandon  all  hope  of  following  out  his  own 
fancies  merely, —  at  least  while  the  world  spins  on  the 
principle  that  bread  and  meat  are  to  be  got  only  for 
cash.  Not  having  had  any  special  preliminary  training 
for  his  profession,  he  should,  for  that  very  reason,  set 
himself  deliberately  to  work  to  remedy  his  defects.  He 
should  take  especial  care  of  the  tool  or  instrument  he 
is  to  work  with,  his  mind, —  giving  it  edge  and  sharp 
ness  by  the  right  studies,  enlarging  it  by  serviceable 
knowledge,  and  keeping  it  clear  and  bright  instead  of 
letting  it  rust  by  indolence,  or  dimming  it  by  dissipa 
tion.  He  should  browse  freely  in  all  the  fields  of  liter 
ature  and  history,  and  acquaint  himself  with  the  leading 
facts  of  physical  science,  political  economy,  politics,  and 
philosophy,  as  a  part  of  his  necessary  stock  in  trade. 
Above  all,  he  should  rid  himself  of  the  silly  notion  that 
it  is  the  nature  of  genius  to  be  wayward  and  irregular. 
Instead  of  working  by  fits  and  starts,  lying  idle  six 


236  IS   LITERATURE   ILL- PAID? 

days  and  crowding  into  one  day  the  labors  of  six,  he 
must,  as  a  rule,  toil  at  stated  times,  and  if  he  is  con 
tributing  to  a  periodical  or  newspaper,  do  his  work 
punctually  and  to  the  wishes  of  his  employer. 

•But  whether  an  employe  or  working  independently, 
let  him  husband  his  gains,  remembering  that  to  be 
poor  is  the  surest  way  to  keep  poor,  and  that  the  only 
way  to  command  the  money  of  others  is  not  to  need 
it.  While  he  should  never  economize  so  far  as  "to 
think  candle  ends"  and  become  a  niggard,  he  should 
yet  seek  to  be  independent  by  all  honorable  means,  as 
necessary  not  only  to  his  self-respect,  but  to  the  un 
trammelled  arid  vigorous  exercise  of  the  faculties  by 
which  he  is  to  earn  his  bread.  Can  anyone  doubt  that 
a  literary  man  thus  equipped  and  thus  acting  would 
make  head  in  the  world?  Is  it  not  as  true  of  this 
calling  as  of  every  other,  that  so  far  from  first-class 
employment  being  wanting  for  first-class  men,  the  men 
are'  wanting  for  the  employment  ?  Need  any  author 
plead  his  fine  tastes  as  an  excuse  for  extravagant  ex 
penditures,  when  Burns,  with  seventy  pounds  a  year, 
could  keep  free  of  debt?  Or  will  anyone  talk  of  the 
incompatibility  of  vulgar  cares  about  beef  and  bread  with 
the  lofty  conceptions  of  genius,  when  he  remembers 
that  Shakspeare,  the  king  of  authors,  amassed  a  sum 
equal  to  more  than  two  hundred  thousand  dollars  in 
our  own  day,  and  that  Scott  neglected  no  duty  as  a 
man  and  a  citizen  while  he  wrought  out  his  marvellous 
fictions  ? 

The  truth  is,  it  is  with  other  literary  men  as  it  is 
with  the  toilers  connected  with  the  daily  and  weekly 
press;  their  calling  is  what  they  choose  to  make  it.  A 
generation  ago  there  was  a  deal  of  cant  in  the  news 
papers  about  the  hard  lot  of  the  gentlemen  of  the  press. 


IS    LITERATURE   ILL-PAID?  237 

Almost  every  country  editor  had  his  monthly  or  quar 
terly  Jeremiad,  in  which  he  indulged  in  a  long  and 
lugubrious  wail  over  his  herculean  labors  and  his  beg 
garly  receipts.  Now  that,  by  energy,  tact,  and  persist 
ence,  the  press  has  become  an  engine  of  power,  'the 
"Fourth  Estate"  of  the  realm,  we  hear  no  more  of 
these  piteous  plaints.  A  journalist  thrives  or  fails, 
according  to  his  qualifications  and  habits.  The  "b'hoys" 
and  "fast"  men  of  the  profession  who  "go  in"  for  a 
short  life  and  a  merry  one, —  who  mortgage  morrows 
of  happiness  for  moments  of  present  gratification, — 
whose  fingers  itch  to  get  rid  of  a  dollar  the  moment 
they  receive  it, —  who  make  larger  investments  in  cham 
pagne  suppers  than  in  interest-bearing  notes,— who  de 
spise  the  homely  virtues  of  temperance  and  frugality, 
and,  Micawber-like,  are  always  counting  upon  some 
miraculous  piece  of  good  fortune  to  "turn  up," — this 
class  is,  doubtless,  miserable  enough,  and  think  their 
profession,  as  they  would  think  any  other,  if  they  be 
longed  to  it,  the  hardest-worked  and  most  poorly-re 
quited  in  the  world.  Such  men  are  always  "hard  up" 
for  ideas  and  money,  have  a  natural  horror  of  the' 
printer's  devil,  and  when  not  engaged  in  digging  (5ut 
leaders  from  their  brains,  are  excavating  their  own  graves. 
But  those  who  stick  to  their  legitimate  business,  and 
do  their  duties  faithfully,  steer  clear  of  bar-rooms 
and  billiard-saloons,  have  a  horror  of  race-courses,  go 
home  at  night  before  the  key-hole  is  "stolen,"  pay  one 
hundred  cents  to'  the  dollar,  and  bear  in  mind  that 
there  is  a  "rainy  day"  coming,  for  which  it  would  be 
well  to  lay  by  a  snug  sum, —  get  along  well  enough,^ 
and  find  their  calling  as  pleasant  and  profitable,  to  say 
the  least,  as  that  of  feeling  pulses,  preaching  to  sleepy 
congregations,  or  piercing  the  skulls  of  stupid  jury- 


238  IS  LITEEATTJKE  ILL-PAID? 

men.  The  owners  of  our  great  representative  journals 
are  always  on  the  watch  for  such  men;  they  have  the 
eyes  of  a  lynx  to  detect  them  in  the  humblest  and 
most  obscure  positions;  and  If  to  these  qualifications 
they  add  mental  grasp,  large  resources,  and  that  tact 
and  worldly  knowledge  which  put  the  key-stone  to  the 
arch  of  all  their  other  qualifications,  their  ascent  to  the 
topmost  round  of  the  ladder  will  be  as  sure  and  rapid 
in  this  profession  as  in  any  other. 


CURIOSITIES  OF  CRITICISM. 


AMONG  the  amusing  and  instructive  books  that 
remain  to  be  written,  one  of  the  most  piquant 
would  be  a  history  of  the  criticisms  with  which  the 
most  celebrated  literary  productions  have  been  greeted 
on  their  first  appearance  before  the  world.  Such  a  vol 
ume,  if  faithfully  written,  would  probably  show  that  if 
works  of  genius  are  rare,  just  criticisms  of  them  are 
rarer  still;  that  if  Homer  sometimes  nods,  Aristarchus 
is  often  found  napping;  and  that  the  oracles  of  litera 
ture  are  just  as  fallible  as  all  other  oracles,  and  never 
make  more  egregious  or  ludicrous  mistakes  than  when 
they  are  most  confident  and  most  dogmatic  in  their 
decisions.  The  circumstances  that  may  warp  the  judg 
ment  of  the  critic  are  legion.  Not  only  jealousy,  envy, 
bigotry,  self-conceit,  an  exclusive  love  for  special  kinds 
of  literature,  a  latent  idiosyncrasy,  may  cause  an  ob 
liquity  in  his  judgment,  but  he  is  almost  always  too  easily 
accessible  to  outside  influences  to  pronounce  an  unerr 
ing  opinion.  The  mind  of  almost  every  man  is  as  deli 
cately  poised,  and  as  easily  moved,  as  those  scales  which 
are  so  nicely  constructed  that  a  passing  insect's  wing 
will  disturb  them;  and  the  mental  insects  are  some 
times  very  large  and  numerous,  and  flap  their  wings 
most  vigorously. 

Who  can  credit  the  fact  that  the  poet  who  overtops 
all    the    other  poets    of  ancient    or    modern    times  as 


240  CURIOSITIES  OF   CRITICISM. 

Mont  Blanc  overtops  the  other  Alps,  was  denounced 
by  "a  great  critic"  in  the  seventeenth  century  as 
"raving  and  rambling  in  tragedy,  without  any  cohe 
rence,  any  spark  of  reason?"  Yet  such  was  the  judg 
ment  of  Kymer,  for  whom  Dryden  had  a  profound 
reverence.  Othello  he  pronounces  "  a  bloody  farce,  with 
out  salt  or  savor,"  which  can  only  fill  the  head  with 
"  vanity,  confusion,  tintamarre,  and  jingle-jangle.  *  * 
No  woman  bred  out  of  a  pigstye  could  talk  so  meanly 
as  Desdemona."  Voltaire  pronounced  Shakspeare's  tra 
gedies  "monstrous  farces;"  Mr.  Secretary  Pepys,  an 
inveterate  play-goer,  thought  A  Midsummer  NigMs 
Dream  the  most  insipid,  ridiculous  play  he  had  ever 
witnessed;  Goldsmith,  in  his  Citizen  of  the  World, 
declares  the  famous  "To  be,  or  not  to  be"  soliloquy  a 
chaos  of  incongruous  metaphors ;  and  Wallack,  the  actor, 
tells  us  that  when  he  attempted  to  read  Macbeth  to  a 
French  friend,  the  latter  broke  out  in  the  first  scene 
with  the  most  violent  exclamations  of  disgust:  "Eh 
Men!  now  dis  is  not  nature!  dis  is  not  common  sense! 
Oh,  no!  De  tree  old  veetch  shall  nevare  to  go  out  to 
meet  upon  de  blasted  heath  with  no  close  on  in  tondare, 
lightning,  and  in  rain.  Ah,  no!  It  is  not  common 
sense!  ma  foi,  day  stay  at  home!  Aha!"  Byron  con 
tended  most  stoutly  that  Pope  was  equal,  if  not  superior, 
to  the  thousand-souled  dramatist. 

"Rare  old  Ben  Jonson,"  if  we  may  credit  Drum- 
mond's  notes  of  his  conversation,  was  anything  but  a 
just  and  impartial  critic.  His  judgments  on  contempo 
rary  poets  were  insolently  magisterial, —  in  the  very  tone 
of  Sir  Oracle.  "  Spenser^  stanzas  pleased  him  not,  nor 
his  matter."  Donne,  though  the  first  poet  in  the  world 
in  some  things,  for  "not  keeping  of  accent,  deserved 
hanging."  Sharpham,  Day,  and  Dekkar,  were  all  rogues ; 


CURIOSITIES   OF   CRITICISM.  241 

and  Abram  Fraunce,  "in  his  English  hexameters,  was 
a  foole."  The  facile,  melodious  Waller,  who  never 
wrote  a  line  that  touches  the  heart,  saw  nothing  in 
Milton  but  a  poor,  blind  old  schoolmaster,  who  had 
written  a  dull  poem,  remarkable  for  nothing  but  its 
length ;  and  even  Milton  himself  preferred  the  cold  intel 
lectual  conceits,  the  metaphysical  ingenuity,  of  Cowley 
to  Dryden's  masculine  energy  and  "  full-resounding  line." 
Dryden  objected  to  Milton's  blank  verse,  to  which  he 
is  positive  the  author  of  Paradise  Lost  was  driven  be 
cause  "rhyme  was  not  his  talent."  Locke, — of  whose 
Essay  on  the  Human  Understanding  the  acute  De  Maistre 
says  that  it  is  a  misnomer,  and  that  it  should  have 
been  entitled  "An  Essay  on  the  Understanding  of 
Locke," — declares  that,  Milton  excepted,  all  the  other 
English  poets  are  mere  ballad-makers  compared  with 
"everlasting  Blackmore."  Yet  the  verse  of  this  now 
forgotten  poet  was  so  rough  that  it  was  said  that  he 
wrote  to  the  sound  of  his  own  chariot-wheels.  Pope, 
the  little  wasp  of  Twickenham,  who  stung  so  many 
rivals  by  his  criticism,  writhed  more  than  once  under 
the  stings  of  his  enemies.  His  Essay  on  Criticism  was 
characterized  as  "  a  pert,  insipid  heap  of  commonplace ; " 
his  Windsor  Forest  as  a  "  barbarous  rhapsody ; "  and  on 
one  occasion  when,  angling  for  a  compliment,  he  asked 
his  friend  Mallet  what  new  things  there  were  in  litera 
ture,  he  was  answered,  "Nothing  worth  notice;  only  a 
thing  called  an  Essay  on  Man,  made  up  of  shocking 
poetry  and  insufferable  philosophy."  "/wrote  it! "cried 
Pope,  stung  with  rage,  and  his  friend  blushed,  bowed, 
and  darted  out  of  the  room,  never  to  return. 

It  seems  incredible  that  the  great  literary  bashaw 
of  the  eighteenth  century,  Dr.  Johnson,  should  have 
blundered  so  egregiously  as  he  did  in  some  of  his  crit- 


242  CURIOSITIES  OF  CRITICISM. 

ical  judgments.  Analyzing  with  extraordinary  acuteness 
and  sagacity  poetry  of  the  same  class  as  his  own,  and 
dissecting  with  Velpeau-like  precision  the  nonsense  and 
extravagances  of  the  metaphysical  poets,  he  fails  utterly 
when  he  applies  his  scalpel  to  the  more  imaginative 
bards.  In  his  estimate  of  the  classic  poets,  like  Pope 
and  Dryden,  he  has  shown  a  mastery  and  solidity  of 
criticism  rarely  rivaled;  but  the  moment  he  treads  the 
enchanted  ground  of  romantic  poetry  he  betrays  an 
almost  utter  want  of  perception.  Like  a  deaf  man 
seated  at  a  symphony  of  Beethoven,  he  lacks  a  sense; 
and  hence  for  what  is  picturesque  and  passionate, — 
the  "enchanting  ravishment"  that  "would  take  the 
prisoned  soul "  of  a  more  sensitive  critic  and  "  lap  it  in 
Elysium," — he  has  no  ear.  The  reading  of  Paradise 
Lost  he  pronounced  a  duty  rather  than  a  pleasure.  He 
declared  the  diction  of  Milton's  Lycidas  harsh,  its  num 
bers  unpleasing;  and  told  Anna  Seward  that  "he  would 
hang  a  dog  that  read  that  poem  twice."  Gerald  Griffin 
says  that,  when  he  was  a  reviewer,  he  used  to  receive 
novels  from  the  publishers,  accompanied  with  a  request 
not  to  cut  the  leaves,  a  request  that  prevented  him 
from  employing  Hood's  expedient  for  rapid  reviewing, — 
to  cut  the  leaves,  and  smell  of  the  paper-knife !  John 
son's  mistakes  sometimes  provoke  one  to  believe  that 
he  adopted  a  similar  method  in  doing  hack-work  for 
Cave  and  his  confreres.  He  confessed  that  he  never 
read  Milton  through  till  he  was  compelled  to  do  so,  to 
gather  words  for  his  dictionary.  Chatterton  he  pro 
nounced  "a  vulgar,  uneducated  stripling;"  and  Collins, 
the  author  of  the  Ode  to  Evening, —  a  poem  that  floats 
into  the  reader's  mind  like  a  stream  of  celestial  music, 
and  which  has  been  compared  to  a  melody  of  Schu 
bert, —  he  pronounces  harsh  and  prosaic  in  his  diction. 


CURIOSITIES   OF   CRITICISM.  243 

Beattie,  the  poet,  moralist,  and  metaphysician,  stig 
matized  Churchill's  verse  as  "driveling  and  dull;"  and, 
in  speaking  of  the  fastidious  Gray,  who  pruned  and 
polished  and  repolished  his  poetry  with  ceaseless  care, 
commends  his  "unlabored  art!"  Dr.  Kenrick  declared 
Goldsmith's  Traveller  flimsy,  and  the  Deserted  Village 
"pretty,  but  deficient  in  fancy,  dignity,  genius,  and 
fire."  Gray  could  not  see  a  spark  of  genius  in  Vol 
taire,  except  in  his  plays,  which  no  literary  resurrec 
tionist  now  thinks  of  disentombing;  nor  could  he  dis 
cover  any  merit  in  Rousseau's  Nouvelle  Heloise.  David 
Hume,  he  said,  had  continued  all  his  days  an  infant, 
but,  unhappily,  had  been  taught  to  read  and  write. 
The  luxurious  dreaminess  and  ^Eolian-harp-like  music 
of  Thomson's  finest  poem,  TJie  Castle  of  Indolence,  Gray 
could  not  appreciate;  and  he  thought  Collins  lacked 
imagery. 

When  the  "Wizard  of  the  North"  was  charming 
the  world  with  his  matchless  creations,  the  author  of 
"Crotchet  Castle"  could  see  no  merit  in  "Waverley" 
or  any  of  its  successors.  All  of  Scott's  romances,  he 
boldly  declared,  were  like  the  pantomimes  of  the  stage. 
"They  are  both  one,  with  a  slight  difference.  The  one 
is  the  literature  of  pantomime,  the  other  is  the  panto 
mime  of  literature.  There  is  the  same  variety  of  char 
acter,  the  same  diversity  of  story,  the  same  copiousness 
of  incident,  the  same  research  into  costume,  the  same 
display  of  heraldry,  falconry,  minstrelsy,  scenery,  monk 
ery,  witchery,  devilry,  poachery,  robbery,  piracy,  fishery, 
gipsy  astrology,  demonology,  architecture,  fortification, 
castrametation,  navigation;  the  same  running  base  of 
love  and  battle.  The  main  difference  is,  that  the  one 
set  of  amusing  fictions  is  told  in  music  and  action; 
the  other  in  the  worst  dialects  of  the  English  language. 


244  CUEIOSITIES   OF   CRITICISM. 

As  to  any  sentence  worth  remembering,  any  moral  or 
political  truth,  anything  having  a  tendency,  however 
remote,  to  make  men  wiser  or  better,  to  make  them 
think,  to  make  them  even  think  of  thinking, — they 
are  both  precisely  alike."  When  Gibbon's  "  Decline  and 
Fall"  was  published,  it  was  received  with  a  tempest 
of  enthusiasm  only  paralleled  by  that  which  greeted 
Macaulay's  "History  of  England."  Yet  Person,  in 
speaking  of  its  style,  said  that  there  could  not  be^  a 
better  exercise  for  a  schoolboy  than  to  turn  a  page  of 
the  work  into  English.  Thomas  Moore  found  Chaucer 
absolutely  unreadable,  and  Samuel  Rogers  had  no  admira 
tion  for  Shakspeare. 

The  savage  Gifford,  who  broke  so  many  bardlings  on 
the  wheel  of  his  satire,  did  good  service  to  literature; 
yet  nothing  can  be  more  senseless  than  some  of  his 
critical  judgments.  Think  of  a  reviewer  calling  Hazlitt 
a  dull  blockhead,  and  affirming  that  Shelley's  poetry 
was  generally  meaningless!  The  slaughterer  of  the 
Delia  Cruscans  long  had  the  unenviable  distinction  of 
having  killed  Keats  with  a  critique,  and  Byron  gave 
currency  to  the  story  by  expressing  his  astonishment 
that 

The  soul,  that  very  fiery  particle, 
Should  let  itself  be  snuffed  out  by  an  article. 

But  Keats,  sensitive  and  tender-souled  as  he  was,  was 
made  of  stuff  too  stern  to  be  stabbed  by  a  goose-quill. 
Such  an  onslaught,  however,  as  that  of  the  Quarterly 
on  his  first  literary  venture,  could  have  been  dictated 
only  by  the  bitterest  political  partisanship,  mingled  with 
religious  bigotry.  The  critic  who  declares  the  Prome 
theus  Unbound  to  be  "driveling  prose  run  mad,"  may 
be  expected  to  characterize  T7ie  Eve  of  Si.  Agnes  as 
"  gratuitous  nonsense." 


CURIOSITIES   OF   CRITICISM.  245 

The  reader  has  seen  from  these  examples  that  of 
all  the  critics  upon  poetry  the  most  fallible  are  poets. 
The  frequency  with  which  their  predictions  concerning 
the  popularity  of  a  brother  bard  are  falsified,  shows  that 
the  time  has  gone  by  when 

The  sacred  name 
Of  poet  and  of  prophet  was  the  same. 

The  poet  may  sing  like  an  angel,  but  when  he 
leaves  the  sky  and  touches  the  earth,  he  may  trip  like 
other  mortals.  He  does  better  on  his  wings  than  on 
his  feet.  Having  a  secret  bias  toward  that  species  of 
literary  composition  in  which  he  himself  excels,  an 
author  is  often  the  very  poorest  judge  of  writings  radi 
cally  different  from  his  own.  What,  then,  is  more  natu 
ral  than  that  he  should  invent  canons  that  would  limit 
all  literary  merit  to  the  limits  of  his  own  school  ?  How 
otherwise  could  Byron  have  called  Spenser  "a  dull 
fellow,"  Chaucer  "  contemptible,"  and  scornfully  charac 
terize  Wordsworth's  chief  poem  as 

A  clumsy,  frowsy  poem  called  The  Excursion, 
Writ  in  a  manner  that  is  my  aversion? 

Who  has  forgotten  the  reception  with  which  Words 
worth  was  greeted  from  all  quarters  on  the  publication 
of  his  maiden  volume  ?  From  John  O'Groat's  to  Land's 
End,  his  Lyrical  Ballads  provoked  a  loud  roar  of  laugh 
ter;  he  was  the  butt  of  small  witlings,  and  the  object 
of  the  critic's  hissing  scorn.  His  theory  of  poetry  was 
looked  upon  as  a  defiance  to  all  the  laws  of  criticism, 
and  to  his  brethren  of  the  tuneful  tribe  was  hardly  less 
startling  than  if  he  had  announced  some  new  and  mon 
strous  heresy.  The  Edinburgh  Review,  especially,  out- 
Jeffreyed  Jeffrey  in  its  merciless  sarcasms;  it  not  merely 


246  CURIOSITIES   OF  CRITICISM. 

ridiculed  his  perversities,  his  occasional  puerility  of 
theme,  and  tastelessness  of  diction,  but  scoffed  at  some 
of  the  finest  productions  of  his  genius.  Ruth,  TJie  Pet 
Lamb,  We  are  Seven,  and  the  immortal  Intimations  of 
Immortality,  were  dismissed  with  the  same  flippant  and 
contemptuous  criticism  as  Alice  Fell,  and  such  verses 
as  these: 

A  household  tub,  like  one  of  those 
Which  women  use  to  wash  their  clothes. 

Is  it  not  strange  that  a  poet  who  had  himself  been 
the  victim  of  so  merciless  and  scornful  criticism,  should 
speak  in  the  most  sweepingly  depreciatory  terms  of 
some  of  his  famous  contemporaries  and  predecessors? 
Yet  Dryden's  great  music-ode, —  which  rushes  on  with 
a  swing  and  a  flow  like  that  of  Pindar  himself,  and  has 
been  called  the  Heroic  Symphony  of  Beethoven  in 
words, —  he  stigmatizes  as  "a  drunken  song;"  and  for 
some  of  the  most  glorious  poetry  of  Burns  he  professes 
a  profound  contempt.  Mrs.  Hemans  tells  us  that  the 
poet  and  herself  were  sitting  on  a  bank  overlooking 
Rydal  Lake,  and  talking  of  the  Scotch  bard,  when  she 
said,  "Mr.  Wordsworth,  do  you  not  think  his  war  ode, 
*  Scots  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled,'  has  been  a  good  deal 
overrated, —  especially  by  Mr.  Carlyle,  who  calls  it  the 
noblest  lyric  in  the  language?"  "I  am  delighted  to 
hear  you  ask  the  question,"  was  the  reply ;  "  overrated  ? 
— trash!  stuff!  miserable  inanity!  without  a  thought, — 
without  an  image!"  Then  he  recited  the  piece  in  a 
tone  of  unutterable  scorn,  and  concluded  with  a  da 
capo  of  "Wretched  stuff!"  Southey  called  "The  An 
cient  Mariner,"  of  Coleridge,  "the  clumsiest  attempt  at 
German  sublimity  he  ever  saw ; "  and  Wordsworth 
attributed  the  cold  reception  by  the  public  of  the 


CURIOSITIES   OF   CRITICISM.  247 

"Lyrical   Ballads"  to  that  poem,  now  admitted  to  be 
the  gem  of  the  book. 

It  is  well  known  that  neither  Wordsworth  nor  Cole 
ridge  could  see  any  merit  in  Gray's  Elegy.  Fielding 
thought  Kichardson  a  solemn  prig,  and  Eichardson 
could  never  adequately  express  his  disgust  at  Fielding's 
vulgarity.  Keats  regarded  the  poets  of  Queen  Anne's 
time  as  "a  school  of  dolts,"  who  had  no  more  than 

A  puling  infant's  force 
That  swayed  upon  a  rocking  horse, 
And  thought  it  Pegasus. 

Who  has  forgotten  the  fierce  attack  of  the  Quarterly 
Review  on  "Jane  Eyre,"  in  which  the  unknown  author, 
who  was  a  clergyman's  daughter,  is  pronounced  "a  per 
son  who,  with  great  mental  powers,  combines  a  total 
ignorance  of  society,  a  great  coarseness  of  taste,  and  a 
heathenish  doctrine  of  religion  ?  If  we  ascribe  the 
book  to  a  woman  at  all,"  continues  the  keen-sighted 
critic,  "we  have  no  alternative  but  to  ascribe  it  to  one 
who  has,  for  some  sufficient  reason,  forfeited  the  society 
of  her  own  sex." 

To  conclude,  about  the  rarest  thing  in  the  world, 
next  after  a  work  of  genius,  is  a  bit  of  genuine  criticism. 
The  man  of  creative  genius  is  hardly  less  disqualified 
than  the  unthinking  million  to  decide  upon  the  merit  of  an 
original  production.  The  very  fact  that  one  has  attained 
to  mastery  in  some  high  walk  of  art  shows  that  some 
of  his  faculties  have  been  developed  at  the  expense  of 
the  rest;  for,  as  another  has  well  said,  it  is  not  given 
to  the  human  intellect  to  expand  itself  widely  in  all 
directions  at  once,  and  to  be  at  the  same  time  gigantic 
and  well  proportioned.  One  painter  is  distinguished  by 
his  exquisite  finishing.  He  toils  day  after  day  to  bring 


248  CURIOSITIES  OF   CRITICISM. 

the  veins  of  a  cabbage-leaf,  the  folds  of  a  lace  veil,  the 
wrinkles  of  an  old  woman's  face,  nearer  and  nearer  to 
perfection.  In  the  time  which  he  employs  on  a  square 
foot  of  canvas,  a  master  of  a  different  order  covers  the 
walls  of  a  palace  with  gods  burying  giants  under  moun 
tains,  or  makes  the  cupolas  of  a  church  alive  with 
cherubim  and  martyrs.  Will  either  of  these  artists  be 
likely  fully  to  appreciate  the  other?  or  will  the  critic, 
who  is  charmed  with  the  savageness  of  Salvator,  and 
the  "  corregiosity  of  Correggio,"  do  justice  to  the  grand 
eur  and  lofty  imagination  of  the  frescoes  of  the  Sistine 
Chapel  and  to  the  cartoons? 


TIMIDITY  IN  PUBLIC  SPEAKING. 


WHENCE  comes  that  bashfulness  which  men  of 
great  ability  so  often  feel  in  addressing  a  large 
assembly  ?  How  happens  it  that  a  man  who  never  hesi 
tates  or  stammers  in  pouring  out  his  thoughts  to  a  friend, 
is  embarrassed  or  struck  dumb  if  he  attempts  to  say  the 
same  things,  however  suitable,  to  fifty  persons?  Why 
is  it  that  though  he  is  awed  by  the  presence  of  no  one 
of  them,  and  feels  himself  to  be  intellectually  superior  to 
every  individual  he  faces,  yet  collectively  they  inspire 
him  with  a  kind  of  terror?  Why  is  it  that  while  a 
man  can  talk  fluently  enough  if  sitting  in  a  chair,  yet 
perpendicularity  paralyzes  him;  that  the  moment  he 
gets  upon  his  legs,  his  ideas,  like  a  sailor's  money  on 
shore,  like  a  twenty-dollar  note  in  New  York,  or  like 
thieves  at  sight  of  a  detective,  make  themselves  wings 
and  fly  away  ?  Whately  finds  a  solution  of  the  problem 
in  the  curious  and  complex  play  of  sympathies  which 
takes  place  in  a  large  assembly,  and  which  increases  in 
proportion  to  its  numbers.  In  addressing  a  large  as 
sembly,  a  person  knows  that  each  hearer  sympathizes 
both  with  his  own  anxiety  to  acquit  himself  well,  and 
also  with  the  same  feelings  in  the  minds  of  the  rest 
He  knows  that  every  slip  or  blunder  he  may  make, 
tending  to  excite  mirth,  pity,  or  contempt,  will  make  a 
stronger  impression  on  each  of  the  hearers  from  their 
mutual  sympathy  and  their  consciousness  of  it, —  and 


250  TIMIDITY  IN  PUBLIC   SPEAKING. 

this  doubles  his  anxiety.  Again,  he  knows  that  each 
hearer,  putting  himself  mentally  in  the  speaker's  place, 
sympathizes  with  this  increased  anxiety,  which  is,  by 
this  thought,  increased  still  more ;  and  finally,  if  he  be 
comes  at  all  embarrassed,  the  knowledge  that  there  are 
so  many  to  sympathize,  not  only  with  that  embarrass 
ment,  but  also  with  each  other's  feelings  on  the  per 
ception  of  it,  heightens  the  speaker's  confusion  to  the 
extreme,  and  makes  him,  perhaps,  speechless. 

Whatever  may  be  the  explanation  of  the  phenome 
non,  we  are  all  familiar  with  that  perturbation, —  that 
Belshazzarish  knocking  of  the  knees,  and  that  cleaving 
of  the  tongue  to  the  roof  of  the  mouth, —  which  seizes 
upon  newly-fledged  orators,  when  they  look  upon  a 
"sea  of  upturned  faces,"  especially  for  the  first  time. 
That  panoramic  aspect  of  the  human  face  divine  has  a 
powerful  fascination  for  most  men, —  a  terrible  one  for 
the  sensitive,  or  those  inexperienced  in  public  addresses! 
They  may  express  themselves  fluently  enough  in  soli 
tude,  or  to  a  small  circle  of  friends,  but  the  moment 
they  mount  the  rostrum  and  face  an  audience,  their 
intense  consciousness  of  the  human  presence,  of  its 
reality,  and  of  the  impossibility  of  escaping  it,  petrifies 
the  mind, —  paralyzes  all  its  powers.  Even  the  most 
distinguished  orators  tell  us  that  their  first  attempts 
at  public  speaking  were  fiery  ordeals;  and  not  a  few 
broke  down  opprobriously,  "throttling  their  practised 
accents  in  their  fears,"  and  losing  the  thread  of  their 
thoughts  in  an  access  of  helpless  consternation.  The 
finest  wits  have  been  disgraced  in  this  way,  as  well  as 
the  dullest.  Indeed,  men  of  the  most  thorough  accom 
plishment  in  other  respects,  often  fail  as  public  speak 
ers  from  sheer  excess  of  ideas  and  good  taste,  while  a 
mere  parrot  of  a  fellow,  with  little  culture  and  but  a 


TIMIDITY   IK   PUBLIC   SPEAKING.  251 

thimbleful  of  brains,  "goes  off"  in  a  steady  stream  of 
words,  like  a  rain-spout  in  a  thunderstorm.  It  has 
been  well  observed  that  the  very  delicacy  of  perception, 
the  exquisite  sensibility  to  impressions,  and  the  impul 
siveness,  which  are  essential  to  eloquence,  are  almost 
necessarily  accompanied  by  a  certain  degree  of  nervous 
tremulousness,  just  as  a  finely  strung  harp  vibrates  at 
the  slightest  touch,  or  whenever  the  faintest  breeze 
passes  over  it. 

Addison  and  Gibbon  attempted  oratory  in  the  Brit 
ish  senate,  only  to  fall  flat  and  shame  their  worshipers. 
The  latter  tells  us  that  the  bad  speakers  filled  him 
with  apprehension,  the  good  ones  with  despair.  Pope, 
whom  one  would  suppose  to  have  been  a  pale,  austere, 
self-sustained  mortal,  could  not  speak  ten  consecutive 
words  correctly  in  public.  It  is  amusing  to  hear  from 
him,  who  never  feared  to  confront  the  stoutest  adver 
sary  with  his  pen,  and  who  demolished  a  host  of  ene 
mies  at  one  fell  swoop  in  the  most  sweeping,  fierce  and 
brilliant  satire  in  the  whole  range  of  literature,  the  con 
fession  that  he  could  tell  a  thing  to  three  persons  very 
well,  but  if  his  audience  were  a  dozen,  his  polished 
intellect  was  bewildered ;  that  he  was  unequal  to  a  con 
versation  with  twelve  individuals!  Perhaps  his  dwarf 
ish  stature  had  something  to  do  with  his  nervous  tim 
idity;  and  if,  instead  of  having,  when  he  got  up  in  the 
morning,  to  be  sewed  up  in  stiff  canvas  stays,  in  order  to 
stand  erect,  and  having  to  plump  out  his  meagre,  spec 
tral  legs  with  three  pairs  of  stockings  to  give  them  a 
respectable  look,  he  had  had  the  average  bulk  and  thews 
of  a  man,  he  might  have  flashed  and  thundered  with 
his  tongue  as  well  as  with  his"  pen.  The  "little,  crooked 
man "  was  once  examined  as  a  witness  in  the  House  of 
Lords,  in  the  case  of  the  Bishop  of  Kochester;  and 


252  TIMIDITY   IN   PUBLIC   SPEAKING. 

though  he  had  only  to  state  how  the  bishop  spent  his 
time  at  Bromley,  and  though  when  the  poet  cast  his 
eyes  along  the  nearest  bench  of  peers  (for  he  dared  not 
look  farther,)  he  saw  they  were  nearly  all  his  personal 
acquaintances,  he  actually  made  three  blunders  in  a 
testimony  of  less  than  twenty  words.  Erskine,  the 
great  advocate,  was  at  first  painfully  unready  of  speech, 
and  so  embarrassed  in  his  maiden  efforts  that  he  would 
have  abandoned  the  attempt  to  be  an  orator,  had  he 
not  felt,  as  he  tells  us,  his  children  tugging  at  his  gown, 
and  urging  him  on,  in  spite  of  his  boggling  and  stam 
mering.  Sheridan,  as  all  know,  "hung  fire"  in  his 
first  speech;  and  Curran  was  almost  knocked  down  by 
the  sound  of  his  own  voice  when  he  first  addressed  his 
"gentlemen"  in  a  little  room  of  a  tavern. 

Sir  Philip  Francis,  of  whose  audacious  letters  even 
Burke  tells  us  that  they  made  his  blood  run  cold,  (for 
we  assume  that  Francis  was  the  real  Stat  No-minis 
Umbra, —  the  mysterious  Junius,)  was  hesitating  and 
unready  in  speech.  He  said  on  one  occasion  in  the 
House  of  Commons,  "  I  am  not  accustomed  to  speak 
in  public,  and  I  very  much  fear,  that,  although  what 
I  have  to  say  is  clear  enough  in  my  own  mind,  it  will 
appear  in  great  disorder."  At  another  time  he  says: 
"I  am  thoroughly  conscious  of  my  own  infirmities. 
Even  signs  and  gestures  are  sufficient  to  disconcert 
me."  Cowper  is  another  instance  of  extreme  bashful- 
ness,  or  lack  of  presence  of  mind,  before  a  public  assem 
bly.  In  early  life,  through  his  aristocratic  connexions, 
he  obtained  the  place  of  clerk  in  the  House  of  Lords, 
where  his  duties  would  have  been  little  more  than  to 
stand  up  and  read  parliamentary  notices  or  documents 
to  the  House;  but  so  timid  was  he,  that  the  idea  of 
being  obliged  to  speak  before  a  large  audience  terrified 


TIMIDITY   IN   PUBLIC   SPEAKING.  253 

him  exceedingly,  and  so  wrought  upon  his  imagination 
as  the  time  drew  near  when  he  should  begin  his  attend 
ance,  that  he  gave  way  to  an  agony  of  apprehension, 
and  tried  to  hang  himself.  Eather  than  make  a  figure 
in  the  eye  of  the  public,  he  deliberately  got  a  rope,  and 
tried  to  put  an  end  to  his  mental  sufferings.  But  for 
a  servant,  who  entered  the  room  as  he  was  about  exe 
cuting  his  design,  the  world  would  have  wanted  some 
immortal  songs.  Cowper's  shyness  and  fear  of  the  pub 
lic  eye  never  wholly  forsook  him.  While  he  lived  in 
retirement  with  Mrs.  ITnwin,  her  son  and  daughter,  he 
avoided  the  company  of  strangers;  and  he  was  often 
known  in  his  rural  walks  to  leave  the  road,  and  con 
ceal  himself  inside  the  fence,  if  he  saw  any  one,  espe 
cially  a  lady,  approaching.  When  the  danger  was  past, 
he  would  come  forth  and  proceed  on  his  ramble. 

Theodore  Hook  complained,  to  his  dying  day,  that 
he  had  never  completely  overcome  the  unpleasant  sen 
sation  felt  on  entering  a  room ;  and  an  English  reviewer 
tells  of  an  eminent  law-lord,  the  very  model  of  senato 
rial  and  judicial  eloquence  of  the  composed  and  dignified 
order,  who  has  been  seen  to  tremble,  when  he  rose  to 
address  the  House  of  Lords,  like  a  thorough-bred  racer 
when  first  brought  to  the  starting-post.  Even  the  great 
reviewer,  Jeffrey,  though  generally  fluent,  once  stuck  in 
a  speech.  When  John  Kemble  was  about  to  quit  the 
Edinburgh  stage,  some  of  his  admirers  decided  to  give 
him  a  dinner  and  a  snuff-box,  and  chose  Jeffrey  to 
make  the  presentation  address.  As  the  latter  rose,  the 
great  tragedian,  who  sat  beside  him,  rose  also  with 
most  formidable  dignity.  Being  thus  forced  to  look 
up  to  his  man,  Jeffrey  found  himself  annihilated  by  the 
tall  tragic  god,  who  sank  him  to  the  earth  at  every 
compliment,  by  obeisances  of  overwhelming  grace  and 


254  TIMIDITY   IN   PUBLIC    SPEAKING. 

stateliness.  Beginning  well,  the  great  critic  got  con 
fused,  and  mortified  his  friends  by  sitting  down,  and 
not  only  leaving  his  speech  unfinished,  but  even  for 
getting  to  thrust  the  box  into  the  hands  of  the  intended 
receiver.  Dr.  Chalmers,  though  a  giant  in  the  pulpit, 
never  was  able  to  speak  extempore  in  a  way  satisfactor 
ily  to  himself,  though  the  cause  was  not  bashfulness, 
but  the  overmastering  fluency  of  his  mind.  Thoughts 
and  words  came  to  his  lips  in  a  flood,  and  thus  impeded 
each  other,  like  water  which  one  attempts  to  pour  all 
at  once  out  of  a  narrow-mouthed  jug. 

Even  years  of  practice  in  public  speaking  do  not 
always  extinguish  the  timidity  which  many  feel  in  con 
fronting  an  assemblage  of  listeners.  John  Quincy 
Adams,  who  was  one  of  the  readiest  of  public  debaters, 
and  seemed  always  armed  cap-a-pie,  told  Governor  Slade, 
of  Vermont,  that  he  never  got  upon  his  legs  to  speak 
without  nervousness  and  fear  of  failure.  Gough  is  said 
to  be  still  troubled  with  stage-fright,  though  he  has 
lectured  for  twenty-six  years,  and  appeared  before  Bos 
ton  audiences  three  hundred  and  fifty  times.  Many 
speakers  who  have  no  fear  of  a  familiar  audience,  are 
yet  nervous  in  a  new  position.  Lord  Eldon  once  said 
that  he  was  always  a  little  nervous  in  speaking  at  the 
Goldsmiths'  Dinner,  though  he  could  talk  before  Parlia 
ment  with  as  much  indifference  as  if  it  were  so  many 
cabbage-plants. 

The  question  has  been  asked:  Why  is  it  that  men 
who  have  ranked  high  as  writers,  have  so  often  misera 
bly  failed  as  speakers?  They  who  may  be  said  on 
paper  to  roar  you  in  the  ears  of  the  groundlings  an 
'twere  any  lion,  aggravate  their  voice  on  the  platform 
like  a  sucking  dove.  The  explanation  is  that  very  dif 
ferent  and  quite  opposite  intellectual  gifts  are  required 


TIMIDITY   IN   PUBLIC   SPEAKING.  255 

to  form  a  good  writer  and  a  good  speaker.  Abstraction 
of  mind,  seclusion  from  the  din  and  tumult  of  public 
assemblies,  unwearied  patience  in  gathering  the  mate 
rials  of  composition,  and  exquisite  taste,  that  will  be 
satisfied  only  with  the  utmost  nicety  and  finish  of  style, 
are  demanded  by  the  writer ;  while  quickness  of  thought, 
boundless  self-confidence,  tact  in  seizing  upon  the  most 
available,  though  not  the  most  satisfactory  arguments, 
and  a  certain  intellectual  coarseness  that  is  not  offended 
by  a  slip  or  a  blunder,  are  necessary  to  the  orator. 
Again,  a  writer  may  spend  an  hour  in  choosing  a  word, 
and  a  day  in  polishing  a  sentence,  but,  as  the  author 
of  Lacon  has  observed,  eloquence,  to  produce  its  full 
effect,  must  start  from  the  head  of  the  orator,  as  Pallas 
from  the  brain  of  Jove,  clad  in  full  panoply.  The  fas 
tidious  writer  may  blot  out  words  and  substitute  new 
ones  by  the  hundred,  and  it  is  his  own  fault  if  the  fact 
is  known  to  his  dearest  friend ;  but  if  an  orator  chances 
to  boggle  once  with  his  tongue,  the  detection  is  imme 
diate,  and  the  punishment  certain.  Great  writers,  too, 
having  a  reputation  to  support,  often  suffer  as  speakers 
from  a  self-defeating  over-anxiety  to  do  well ;  like 
Sheridan,  who  was  said  to  have  been  all  his  life  afraid  of 
the  author  of  "  The  School  for  Scandal,"  they  are  fright 
ened  at  the  shadow  of  their  own  reputation. 

Let,  then,  the  stammerers,  the  tongue-tied  and  scat 
ter-brained  members  of  society  console  themselves, —  for 
this  is  the  moral  of  our  remarks, — under  their  inability 
to  wield  at  will  the  fierce  democracy.  If  the  os  magna 
sonaturum  is  denied  them,  let  them  remember  the  say 
ing  that  speech  is  silver,  but  silence  gold;  that  Grant 
is  tongue-tied  in  public;  that  Moltke  is  silent  in  eight 
languages;  that  Hawthorne  was  dumb  before  a  large 
company,  and  that  Irving  could  not  give  an  after-dinner 


256  TIMIDITY    IN   PUBLIC    SPEAKING. 

toast  without  fright ;  that  neither  Washington  nor  Jeffer 
son  were  orators,  nor  even  glib  talkers,  and  yet  John 
Adams  said  of  the  former  that  he  had  the  most  remark 
able  mouth  he  had  seen,  for  nothing  foolish  escaped 
from  it;  that  deeds  are  higher  proof  of  genius  than 
words,  and  that 

"  One  true  thought,  from  the  deepest  heart  upspringing, 

May  from  within  a  whole  life  fertilize; 
One  true  word,  like  the  lightning  sudden  gleaming, 

May  rend  the  night  of  a  whole  world  of  lies. 
Much  speech,  much  thought,  may  often  be  but  seeming, 

But  in  one  truth  might  boundless  ever  lies." 


NOSES. 


TTOW  very  odd  that  poets  should  suppose 
*    '    There  is  no  poetry  about  a  nose, 
When  plain  as  a  man's  nose  upon  his  face, 
A  noseless  face  would  lack  poetic  grace ! 
Why,  what  would  be  the  fragrance  of  a  rose, 

And  where  would  be  the  mortal  means  of  telling 
Whether  a  vile  or  wholesome  odor  flows 

Around  us,  if  we  owned  no  sense  of  smelling? 
'Neath  starry  eyes,  o'er  ruby  lips  it  grows, — 
Beauty  in  its  form, —  and  music  in  its  blows! 

So  sings  a  modern  bard,  with  more  truth  than  poetry. 
To  us,  as  to  him,  it  has  been  always  a  profound  and  in 
explicable  mystery  that  poets  and  other  writers,  in  extoll 
ing  the  glories  of  the  human  face  divine,  should  so 
uniformly  turn  up  their  noses  at  its  most  prominent  and 
significant  feature.  The  eye,  whether  of  lustrous  gray 
or  of  witching  hazel,  of  sweet,  pellucid  blue,  or  of  the 
mysterious,  unsearchable  black,  has  been  pictured  as 
"the  window  of  the  soul;"  the  peach-like  beauty  of 
the  cheek  has  never  wanted  praise ;  the  mouth  has  been 
called  the  dwelling-place  of  the  loves  and  the  graces; 
but  the  nose  has  been  contemptuously  overlooked,  or 
handled  only  to  be  snubbed.  Many  a  bard  has  indited 
a  sonnet  to  his  mistress's  eyebrow;  but  who  ever  heard 
of  one's  making  a  woful  ballad  to  his  mistress's  nose, 
or  entreating  her  to  drink  to  him  only  with  her  nose, 


258  NOSES. 

or  to  "take,  oh,  take  that  nose  away"?  Had  Byron's 
famous  stanza  run  — 

When  we  two  parted 

In  silence  and  tears, 
Half  broken-hearted, 

To  sever  for  years, 
Pale  grew  thy  nose  and  cold, 

Colder  thy  kiss, — 

the  lines  would  have  been  true  to  nature,  for  the  cheeks 
cannot  be  cold  without  the  nose  being  cold  also;  yet 
we  fear  there  is  hardly  a  critic  in  the  land  who  would 
not  regard  this  change  of  a  word  as  absolutely  fatal  to 
the  pathos. 

Not  only  poets  have  thus  failed  to  discover  any 
ideality  or  sentiment  in  this  feature,  but  all  the  essay 
ists  have  regarded  it  with  equal  coldness.  Neither  Mon 
taigne  nor  Swift  has  devoted  a  chapter  to  the  Nose, 
though  the  one  has  given  us  a  learned  and  elaborate 
dissertation  on  Thumbs,  and  the  other  a  disquisition  on 
Ears,  in  the  "Tale  of  a  Tub."  Perhaps,  in  the  case  of 
many  authors,  the  reason  of  this  may  be  that  they  find 
it  difficult  to  think  seriously  of  noses.  Unfortunately, 
the  nose  is  the  feature  where  all  the  mauvaise  honte 
of  our  nature  seems  embodied;  and  it  often  happens 
that  it  is  associated  in  our  minds,  not  with  blissful  or 
dignified  recollections,  but  with  some  ludicrous,  mirth- 
provoking  occasion,  when  a  sleeping  hearer  in  church 
involuntarily  startled  a  whole  congregation  by  a  note 
from  his  nasal  bassoon  like  that  of  a  trumpet;  or  when, 
during  a  personal  rencontre,  somebody's  nose  was  tweaked 
before  a  crowd  of  spectators,  and,  with  its  owner,  made 
the  butt  of  inextinguishable  laughter.  Again,  we  often 
find  it  difficult  to  banish  the  recollection  of  some  nasal 
enormity  we  have  seen,  such  as  Martial  describes,  which 
almost  touches  the  earth: — 


NOSES.  259 

Quod  pene  terrain  tanget  indecens  nasus; 

* 

or  that  which  is  the  butt  of  a  still  sharper  epigram: — 

Tongilianus  habet  nasum;  scio,  non  nego;  sed  jam 
Nil  praeter  nasum  Tongilianus  habet. 

Placed  conspicuously  in  the  very  front  of  the  human 
countenance,  the  nose  is  in  many  respects  the  most 
unhappy  of  human  organs;  no  other  is  so  exposed  to 
the  rude  buffets  of  the  world;  no  other  in  its  delicate 
and  sensitive  organization  is  so  subject  to  disgust.  As 
a  valiant  champion  of  its  rights  has  said:  "Boreas  as 
sails  it;  Sol  burns  it;  Bacchus  inflames  it.  Put  for 
ward  as  a  leader  in  front  of  the  battle,  men  follow  it 
blindly  in  a  course  which  it  is  very  often  unwilling  to 
pursue,  and  then  blame  it  for  every  mischance.  What 
ever  hard  blows  are  given,  it  comes  in  for  more  than 
its  share,  and,  after  weeping  tears  of  blood,  has  to 
atone  for  the  faults  of  other  members,  over  which  it 
has  no  control.  The  fists  are  continually  getting  it 
into  scrapes;  its  bad  neighbor,  the  tongue,  brings  down 
upon  it  indignation  undeserved;  the  eye  plays  it  false 
on  a  thousand  occasions ;  and  the  whole  body  corporate 
is  continually  poking  it  into  situations  the  most  repug 
nant  to  its  better  feelings." 

In  spite  of  the  neglect  and  insult  to  which  this 
feature  of  the  face  has  been  by  turns  subjected,  we  be 
lieve  there  are  few  sciences  which  will  more  richly  re 
ward  the  pains  of  investigation  and  study  than  that  of 
Nasology.  Treated  with  the  precision  and  the  exhaustive- 
ness  and  fulness  of  Eden  Warwick,  it  teems  alike  with 
instruction  and  interest.  It  has  been  shown  by  a  com 
prehensive  induction  by  that  writer,  leading  to  a  con 
clusion  as  inevitable  and  as  unerring  as  those  of  mathe 
matics,  that  the  nose  is  the  great  facial  sign-post  which 


260  NOSES. 

points  to  character;  that,  in  judging  of  any  man,  we 
have  only  to  follow  our  nose,  or  rather  his  nose,  to  be 
on  the  right  road  to  knowledge.  A  broad,  expansive 
forehead,  and  a  low  monkey  one,  do  not  more  cer 
tainly  indicate  greatness  and  littleness  of  intellect,  than 
the  varieties  of  nose  indicate  the  peculiarities  of  the 
intellectual  and  moral  man.  Not  to  refine  too  nicely, 
the  pointed  and  flexible  nose  has  always  indicated  a 
capacity  for  keen  research,  as  also  a  fox-like,  prying, 
mischievous  disposition ;  the  hawk-nose,  a  Jewish  shrewd 
ness  and  penetration;  the  broad,  flab  nose,  enthusiasm 
of  temperament;  the  thin,  pinched,  starved  nose,  a 
sneaking,  miserly  disposition,  so  well  portrayed  in  the 
inimitable  picture  of  "The  Misers,"  in  Windsor  Castle, 
whose  sharp-pointed  noses  so  strongly  mark  their  avid 
ity  ;  and  the  cocked  nose,  a  conceited  and  contemptuous 
feeling.  What  other  feature  forms  so  perfect  an  anthro- 
pometer  or  index  of  the  man  whom  it  prefaces  ?  Where 
else,  so  vividly  as  upon  the  nose,  do  intemperance  and 
lust  write  their  degrading  signs,  scorn  her  vulgar  sneer, 
concentration  its  singleness  of  aim,  and  blood  its  gradu 
ated  refinements?  What  other  direction  so  terse  and 
significant  as  "Follow  your  nose"? — what  other  syno 
nym  for  imbecility  so  striking  as  "To  be  led  by  the 
nose  "  ? —  and  by  what  other  term  so  expressive  as  "  Nose 
out  of  joint,"  can  one  describe  mortification  or  defeat? 
It  is,  indeed,  marvellous  how  much  this  small  organ,  in 
its  form  and  relation  to  the  other  features,  may  express. 
From  the  nostrils,  spiritually  thin,  and  the  graceful, 
long  arch  of  the  finest  Caucasian  type,  to  the  thick, 
flat  proboscis  of  the  African,  is  a  change  that  marks 
the  very  extremes  of  culture  and  civilization. 

In  all  ages  of  the  world  a  liberal  allowance  of  pro 
boscis   has   been   admired,  while   a   niggardly  one   has 


NOSES.  261 

been  held  in  contempt.  The  Komans  liked  a  long, 
large  nose,  like  Julius  Caesar's;  and  it  is  a  significant 
fact  that  the  same  word  in  Latin,  Nasutus,  means  hav 
ing  a  large  nose,  and  acute  or  sagacious.  All  their  dis 
tinguished  men  had  snuff-taking  organs  not  to  be 
sneezed  at.  Cicero  had  a  large  nose,  with  the  addition 
of  an  excrescence  thereon.  Ovid,  it  is  well  known,  de 
rived  his  sobriquet  of  Naso  from  the  magnitude  of  that 
appendage;  and  it  was  upon  the  strength  of  this,  no 
doubt,  that  he  aspired  to  the  affections  of  Julia,  the 
daughter  of  Augustus.  Juvenal  speaks  of  a  nasus,  quasi 
murus,  oculis  interjectus, —  a  nose  thrown  up  like  a  wall 
between  the  eyes.  Catullus  even  went  so  far,  on  a  cer 
tain  occasion,  as  to  express  a  wish  that  he  were  all 
nose.  In  modern  days,  large  noses  have  been  not  less 
coveted  and  esteemed  than  in  the  ancient.  "Give  me," 
said  Napoleon,  "a  man  with  a  large  allowance  of  nose. 
In  my  observations  of  men  I  have  almost  invariably 
found  a  long  nose  and  a  long  head  to  go  together." 
The  philosophy  of  this  seems  to  be  that  a  man  thus 
favored  is  usually  endowed  with  large  energy  and  intel 
ligence, —  seeming  to  say  (as  his  fingers,  with  the  thumb 
for  a  pivot,  describe  a  spiral  at  the  tip  of  his  facial 
bowsprit)  to  all  who  would  outwit  or  overreach  him, 
"  Not  as  you  knows  on."  On  the  contrary,  a  small  pug 
nose  is  generally  indicative  of  feebleness  of  will  and 
vacillation  of  purpose.  A  pug  may  be  smart  and  witty, 
quick  at  repartee,  and  capable  of  writing  a  newspaper 
paragraph  or  a  song;  but  when  did  a  pug  conquer  a 
kingdom,  write  an  epic,  carve  a  statue,  or  invent  a  new 
mode  of  locomotion?  Never.  Is  there  a  pug  among 
all  Plutarch's  heroes  remarkable  for  anything, — even 
for  pugnacity? 

Let  us  not,  however,  be  misunderstood.    By  a  large 


262  NOSES. 

nose  we  do  not  mean  a  huge,  disproportionate  organ, 
nor  a  diseased,  unhealthy  one,  such  as  a  reader  is  too 
apt  to  picture  in  his  mind's  eye  when  a  generous  nose 
is  spoken  of.  We  refer  to  no  such  enormities  as  the 
well-fed  beak  of  Bardolph,  glowing  with  carbuncles,  and 
hissing  hot  with  the  fumes  of  sack ;  or  Cromwell's  pro 
boscis,  whose  warty  rubicuudity  was  compared  by  Butler 
and  other  lampooners  to  a  meteor,  "perplexing  monarchs 
with  fear  of  change."  Far  less  have  we  in  view  so  im 
mense  a  promontory  of  flesh  as  that  which  jutted  out 
from  the  face  of  the  traveller  in  Slawkenbergius ;  or  an 
eccentric  cutwater  like  Sulla's,  which  the  besieged  Athe 
nians  called  "a  mulberry  dredged  over  with  meal," — a 
joke,  by  the  way,  which  cost  the  inventors  of  it  dearly, 
when  the  revengeful  dictator  put  his  nose  within  their 
gates.  From  all  such  bulbous  excrescences, —  such  nasal 
monstrosities, —  we  pray  to  be  delivered;  as  also  from 
the  alderman's  nose  of  a  thousand  bottles,  concentrating 
in  itself  the  fiery  essences  of  "  potations  deep," —  a  poly- 
petalous  enormity,  "  whose  blushing  honors,"  says  Horace 
Smith,  "  as  becoming  to  it  as  the  stars,  crosses  and  rib 
bons  of  a  successful  general,  are  trophies  of  past  victo 
ries,  the  colors  won  in  tavern  campaigns."  Such  noses 
are  our  horror;  yet  Shakspeare  seems  to  have  regarded 
them  with  a  kindly  feeling,  and  even  to  have  petted 
them.  How  long  and  fondly  does  his  wit  buzz  and 
hover  about  Bardolph's  red  nose !  That  volcanic  prom 
ontory  threatens  to  coruscate  forever  on  his  page;  and 
when  he  parts  with  it  finally,  he  does  so  with  profound 
and  evident  regret. 

Among  the  great  poets  of  the  present  century,  few 
have  had  countenances  more  strikingly  intellectual  than 
Wordsworth ;  and  to  what  was  this  owing  ?  Not  to  the 
eyes,  for  they  lacked  lustre,  and  were  always  more  or 


NOSES.  263 

less  diseased;  nor  to  his  cheeks,  for  they  hung  loose; 
nor  to  his  chin,  which  was  small  and  retreating;  nor 
to  his  mouth,  for  it  was  by  no  means  handsome  or 
suggestive  of  the  refined  qualities  he  exhibited.  Most 
of  his  features  were  commonplace;  but  they  were  re 
deemed  by  a  noble  expanse  of  forehead,  and,  above  all, 
by  the  nose,  which  was  worthy  of  a  Trajan  or  an  An 
toninus.  What  a  contrast  with  this  was  the  physiog 
nomy  of  Coleridge!  Hazlitt,  who  has  painted  him  to 
the  life,  represents  him  as  having  a  mouth  gross,  vo 
luptuous,  open,  eloquent;  a  chin  good-humored  and 
round;  "but  his  nose,  the  rudder  of  the  face,  the  index 
of  the  will,  was  a  small,  feeble  nothing, —  like  what  he 
has  done."  No  wonder  that  Charles  Lamb  wrote,  after 
his  death:  "Coleridge  has  died,  leaving  behind  him,  it 
is  said,  forty  thousand  treatises  on  Metaphysics  and 
Divinity,  not  one  of  them  complete"  Equally  character 
istic  was  the  nose  of  Tom  Moore,  as  described  by  Leigh 
Hunt.  It  was  "sensual  and  prominent,  and  at  the 
same  time  the  reverse  of  aquiline;  there  was  a  very 
peculiar  characteristic  in  it, —  as  if  it  were  looking  for 
ward  to  and  scenting  a  feast  or  an  orchard." 

One  of  the  largest  noses  ever  attached  to  the  human 
face  divine  was  possessed  by  the  Abbe  Genest,  who  flour 
ished  in  the  time  of  Louis  XIV.  Rarely  has  the  world 
seen  such  a  nasal  enormity,  such  a  Brobdingnagian 
olfactory;  it  was  literally  an  immense  nose,  and  when 
its  owner  sneezed  it  must  have  startled  the  bystanders 
like  the  trumpet  stop  of  an  organ  or  the  explosion  of 
distant  cannon.  The  Duke  of  Burgoyne  and  the  Duke 
of  Maine,  his  scholars,  made  it  the  butt  of  endless 
pleasantries;  and  even  his  royal  friend,  the  grand  mon 
arch  himself,  lost  his  gravity,  starch,  and  stateliness,  in 
beholding  it,  and  burst  into  a  laugh.  Nay,  we  are  told 


264  NOSES. 

he  so  far  forgot  his  dignity  as  to  join  in  the  espiegleries 
of  which  the  Abbe  au  nez  royal  was  the  victim,  and  to 
hurl  a  shaft  of  his  own  at  the  unoffending  proboscis. 
One  of  the  happiest  anagrams  on  record  is  one  made  by 
a  wag  of  the  day,  in  allusion  to  the  Abbe's  nose,  on  the 
latter^  name,  which  was  Charles  Oenest :  "Eh!  c'est 
large  nez  —  Eh !  it  is  a  large  nose."  Such  a  nose  would 
have  been  invaluable  to  Hiss,  the  immortal  chairman  of 
the  Massachusetts  "  smelling  committee."  Hardly  less 
imperial  in  its  proportions  was  the  nose  of  Cyrano  de 
Bergerac,  who  flourished  a  little  earlier  in  the  same 
century.  Like  most  persons  thus  gifted,  he  was  sensitive 
regarding  any  allusion  to  its  size,  and  fought  several 
duels  to  maintain  a  due  respect  for  it  among  his  neigh 
bors.  If  his  portrait  may  be  trusted,  his  nose  was  such 
a  one  as  many  men  who  lack  a  sign  of  power  on  their 
faces  would  be  glad  to  own;  and  we  are  told  that  he 
defended  it  with  his  pen  as  well  as  with  his  sword, 
retaliating  upon  his  irreverent  commentators  by  showing 
how  the  inhabitants  of  the  moon  destroy  at  birth  all 
small-nosed  infants,  having  no  hope  for  their  future. 

It  is  said  that  Francois,  Duke  of  Anjou,  had  a  nose 
so  swollen  and  distorted  that  it  seemed  to  be  double; 
which  provoked  from  his  countrymen,  among  other  sar 
casms,  the  gibe  that  the  man  who  always  wore  two  faces 
might  be  expected  to  have  two  noses  also.  Still  more 
unfortunate  was  Turner,  Bishop  of  Ely,  who  in  1691  fled 
from  England  to  the  Continent  to  avoid  apprehension 
for  treason.  His  friends  considered  his  escape  almost 
hopeless,  "  for  his  nose  was  such  that  none  who  had  seen 
it  could  forget  it."  Hardly  less  marked  than  this  was 
the  nose  of  Grimm,  the  German  scholar,  which  was  large 
and  twisted,  but,  according  to  a  shrewd  observer,  "  twisted 
always  in  the  right  direction";  or  that  of  Godwin,  au- 


NOSES.  265 

thor  of  "The  Political  Justice," — which  had  so  fearful 
a  "downward  elongation"  that  Southey  declared  that 
no  language  was  vituperative  enough  to  describe  it. 

Among  the  modern  wearers  of  large  noses,  few  have 
eclipsed  Sir  Charles  Napier,  the  hero  of  Scinde.  He  had 
a  prodigious  proboscis,  and  his  energy  was  in  proportiou. 
Everyone  remembers  the  colossal  proportions  of  President 
Tyler's  nose,  and  the  inflexibility,  not  to  say  obstinacy, 
of  will  which  always  accompanied  it.  Among  modern 
literary  men,  Bulwer  arrests  attention  by  the  extraor 
dinary  size  of  that  organ,  which  is  quite  Dantean  in 
length  and  shape.  Of  all  the  famous  authors  of  our 
time,  none  owe  less  to  genius  and  more  to  persistent 
effort. 

Directly  opposed  to  the  Roman  style  of  noses  is  the 
Greek,  the  owners  of  which  have  far  less  firmness,  deci 
sion,  and  energy  than  the  Romans,  but  more  subtlety, 
tact,  craft,  and  refinement.  Men  with  this  kind  of  nose 
prefer  diagonal  action  to  straightforward ;  they  are  pow 
erful  obliquely,  by  the  indirect  rather  than  by  the  direct 
stroke.  All  the  history  of  Greece  confirms  this  view. 
The  Greeks  loved  the  arts  better  than  war;  they  liked 
to  talk  better  than  to  fight.  They  were  ten  years  in 
conquering  Troy,  when  the  Romans  would  have  battered 
it  down  in  three  months.  When  Rome  aided  Greece 
against  Philip  of  Macedon,  the  Athenians,  according  to 
Livy,  furnished  none  of  the  sinews  of  war ;  they  could 
contribute  to  the  common  cause  only  declamations  and 
despatches  —  "  quibus  solum  valent."  If  the  Greeks  have 
made  a  prodigious  noise  in  history,  they  may  thank 
Homer,  ^Eschylus,  Demosthenes,  and  Phidias, — not  Alex 
ander  or  Epaminondas. 

While  strength  of  character,  persistence,  and  intel 
lectual  breadth  are  thus  indicated  by  a  large  nose,  docility, 


266  NOSES. 

or  willingness  to  be  led  by  others,  is  revealed  by  nasal 
flexibility  —  though  this  quality  has  other  meanings, 
dependent  on  the  other  peculiarities  of  the  organ.  The 
docility  of  the  elephant  is  indicated  by  the  wonderful 
flexibility  of  his  proboscis,  while  the  rhinoceros  betrays 
his  stubbornness  by  his  inflexible  snout  surmounted  by 
a  horn.  It  has  been  suggested  that  the  men  of  Braze- 
nose  College,  Oxford,  may  have  acquired  that  appellation 
by  their  obstinate  and  unyielding  disposition,  as  a  per 
son  of  opposite  temper  is  said  to  be  easily  led  by  the 
nose. 

The  Jewish  or  hawk  nose  generally  indicates  shrewd 
ness  in  worldly  matters,  especially  when  accompanying 
the  narrow,  concentrative  forehead,  which  is  so  symboli 
cal  of  singleness  of  purpose.  Scholars  with  this  nose 
are  generally  curious  wranglers,  ingenius  cabalists,  fine 
splitters  of  hairs,  keen  detectors  of  discrepancies  and 
analogies,  rather  than  men  of  deep  wisdom  or  profound 
learning.  Among  the  Romans,  according  to  Horace, 
this  kind  of  nose  was  looked  upon  as  signifying  a  turn 
for  wit  and  sarcasm ;  for,  speaking  of  his  friend  Virgil, 
he  says  that  though  he  was  one  of  the  best  of  men,  he 
was  no  joker,  and  no  match  in  sneering  for  those  who 
had  sharper  noses  than  his  own; 

— minus  aptus  acutis 
Naribus  horum  hominum; 

that  is,  as  it  has  been  translated  — 

Unfit 
For  the  brisk  petulance  of  modern  wit. 

Akin  to  the  hawk,  though  a  distant  species,  is  the  hook 
nose,  of  which  William  Pitt's  was  one  of  the  most  striking 
examples.  The  great  commoner  had  a  perfect  bowsprit 


NOSES.  267 

of  a  nose, —  a  pert,  hook-shaped  appendage,  on  which  his 
enemies  used  to  say  that  "  he  dangled  the  Opposition  "  at 
his  will.  It  was  a  nose  that  snuffed  every  evil  intent 
of  his  enemies  with  the  keenest  scent;  but  in  most 
other  respects  was  one  of  the  most  unpromising  noses 
that  genius  ever  blew. 

Of  all  the  odious  forms  of  noses,  perhaps  the  flat 
was  the  most  execrated  by  the  Greeks  and  Romans. 
The  Hebrews  coincided  in  this  opinion,  and  held  such 
a  frontispiece  to  be  so  great  a  blemish  in  a  man's  char 
acter,  that,  though  of  the  lineage  of  Aaron,  he  was  abso 
lutely  excluded  by  the  laws  of  Moses  from  the  sacerdotal 
office.  In  our  estimation,  a  more  unfortunate  form  of  nose, 
—  perhaps  the  most  unfortunate,  take  it  all  in  all,  that  one 
can  possess, —  is  the  snub.  The  wearers  of  them  are  often 
amiable;  they  have  rich  stores  of  humor  and  drollery, 
and  are  "  men  of  infinite  jest,  of  most  excellent  fancy," 
rendering  them  the  most  glorious  of  boon  companions; 
but,  unfortunately,  their 'noses  invite  aggression, —  every 
body  regards  them  as  made  to  be  tweaked.  Tristram 
Shandy's  father  indicated  the  general  opinion  of  them 
when  he  said  that  no  family,  however  high,  could  stand 
against  a  succession  of  short  noses.  Eden  Warwick,  who 
is  so  enthusiastic  upon  noses  in  general,  says  of  this: 
"Poenitet  me  Jiujus  nasi.  The  mind  shrinks  from  the 
thought  that,  after  contemplating  the  powerful  Roman- 
nosed  movers  of  the  world's  destinies,  or  the  refined  and 
elegant  Greek-nosed  arbiters  of  art,  or  the  deep  and 
serious-minded  thinkers  with  Cogitative  noses,  it  must 
descend  to  the  horrid  bathos,  the  imbecile  inanity,  of 
the  snub/'  Yet  nature  delights  in  freaks;  and  there 
have  been  cases  of  men  and  women  born  into  the  world 
with  this  despised  species  of  nose,  who  have  attained 
to  great  eminence,  and  outstripped  in  the  race  of  life 


268  NOSES. 

men  with  far  more  auspicious  noses.  "Was  not  Kosci- 
usko's  a  snub  nose  ?  Was  it  not  the  petit  nez  retrousse  of 
Marmontel's  heroine  that  captivated  a  sultan  and  over 
turned  the  laws  of  an  empire?  Was  not  the  downfall 
of  another  empire,  so  eloquently  portrayed  in  the  immor 
tal  page  of  Gibbon,  written  under  a  nose  of  the  very 
snubbiest  construction  ?  So  intangible  was  the  historian's 
smeller,  that  it  is  said,  when  his  face  was  submitted  to 
the  touch  of  a  blind  old  French  lady,  who  used  to 
judge  of  her  acquaintances  by  feeling  their  features,  she 
exclaimed :  "  Voila  une  mauvaise  plaisanterie  !  "  Wilkes, 
the  immortal  demagogue,  had  a  nose  of  this  kind,  and 
was  in  other  respects  so  ugly  that  a  lottery-office  keeper 
once  offered  him  ten  guineas  not  to  pass  his  window 
while  the  tickets  were  drawing,  lest  he  should  bring 
ill-luck  upon  the  house;  yet  so  bewitching  were  his 
conversation  and  his  courtesies,  that  in  thirty  minutes 
he  could  talk  away  his  ugly  face! 

One  of  the  oddest  and  most  eccentric  noses  that 
the  world  has  ever  seen,  was  that  prefixed  to  the  front 
of  Lord  Brougham.  Nasologists  have  vainly  tried  to 
classify  it.  It  is  a  most  perplexing  nose ;  a  nose  sui 
generis;  one  which  comes  within  no  category,  and  which 
defies  all  classification  and  analysis.  It  is  Mke  no  other 
man's;  it  has  its  good  points,  and  bad  points,  and  no 
point  at  all.  We  doubt  whether  the  painter  or  daguer- 
reotypist  ever  lived,  however  dexterous,  who  could  catch 
"  this  Cynthia  of  the  minute."  It  is  a  perfect  Proteus ; 
when  you  think  it  is  going  right  on  for  a  Roman,  it 
suddenly  becomes  a  Greek;  when  you  have  written  it 
down  a  Cogitative,  it  becomes  as  sharp  as  a  knife. 
Generally  it  may  be  pronounced  a  compound  of  Ro 
man,  Greek,  Cogitative,  and  Celestial,  with  a  button  at 
the  end  of  it  It  is  said  that  its  owner  used  to  punct- 


NOSES.  269 

uate  his  sentences  with  it;  that  just  at  the  end  of  a  long 
parenthesis  he  turned  up  his  nose,  which  served  to  note 
the  change  of  subject  as  well  as,  or  better  than,  a  printed 
mark.  Few  noses  have  been  a  more  fruitful  theme  of 
wit.  There  was  no  satirist  of  his  Lordship  who  did 
not  make  it  a  point  to  gird  at  his  proboscis.  A  mil 
lion  of  conceits  have  hung  from  it  as  from  a  peg.  For 
years  it  was  the  target  of  Punch' 's  jokes,  till  it  became 
almost  a  part  of  his  stock  in  trade: 

A  thousand  scapes  of  wit 
Made  it  the  father  of  their  idle  dream, 
And  racked  it  with  their  fancies. 

Such  a  nose,  though  a  godsend  to  the  wags  of  the 
press,  must  be  the  despair  of  painters.  Yet,  with  all 
its  lines,  "  centric  and  eccentric,"  it  is  not  more  puzzling 
than  have  been  others  of  less  equivocal  beauty.  When 
in  1784  Gainsborough  painted  Mrs.  Siddons,  then  in  the 
prime  of  her  glorious  beauty  and  in  the  full  blaze  of 
her  popularity,  he  found  great  difficulty  in  delineating 
the  nose;  and,  after  repeatedly  altering  its  shape,  he 
exclaimed,  "Confound  the  nose!  there  is  no  end  to  it" 
Persons  unskilled  in  physiognomy  cannot  understand 
how  the  nose  can  be  significant  of  character.  To  talk 
of  an  organ  so  unchangeable  as  being  expressive,  seems 
to  them  absurd.  In  opposition  to  this,  Dugazon,  a 
French  actor  distinguished  in  the  period  immediately 
preceding  Talma,  used  to  maintain  that  the  nose  is  the 
most  complete  organ  of  expression,  and  that  there  are 
forty  distinct  modes  of  moving  this  single  feature  with 
variety  of  effect.  Many  a  cool,  calculating  hypocrite, 
who  has  gained  a  complete  mastery  over  the  expres 
sion  of  his  thoughts  and  feelings  by  his  other  facial 
features,  has  been  betrayed  by  a  refractory  nose.  Bal- 


270  NOSES. 

zac,  in  his  Theorie  de  la  Demarche,  tells  of  a  cunning 
dissembler,  who  had  schooled  his  countenance  into  a 
wonderful  immobility, —  eye,  cheek,  and  lip  becoming  at 
nis  bidding  absolutely  devoid  of  meaning, —  and  who 
had  reduced  his  voice  to  an  imperturbable  evenness  of 
tone,  yet  could  not  subdue  the  end  of  his  nose.  "  Que 
voulez-vous?"  he  adds:  "le  Vice  n'est  pas  parfait" 

While  it  is  just  to  speak  of  some  noses  as  eccentric 
and  provocative  of  laughter,  it  must  not  be  forgotten 
that  all  beauty  is  relative.  Though  in  Europe  and 
America  the  Grecian  nose  is  accepted  as  the  highest 
type,  yet  the  Kalmucks  prefer  a  dumpy  club  nose,  the 
Hottentots  a  flat  one,  and  the  Chinese  a  short,  thick 
one.  The  wife  of  the  celebrated  Jenghiz  Khan,  the 
Tartar,  was  deemed  irresistible  because  she  had  only 
two  holes  for  a  nose.  Artists,  however,  contend  that 
a  nose,  to  be  well  formed,  should  be  one-third  of  the 
length  of  the  face,  from  the  tip  of  the  chin  to  the 
roots  of  the  hair.  It  should  also  be  straight, —  with 
the  nostrils  small  and  fine,  springing  well  from  the  face, 
and  meeting  in  that  delicate  bracket  which  seems  lightly 
to  sustain  the  weight  of  both  nose  and  forehead,  yet 
also  open  and  instinct  with  life,  for  the  breath  of  man 
resides  in  them.  Even  the  most  hideous  nasal  enor 
mity,  however,  provided  it  be  a  bona  fide  flesh-and-blood 
nose,  is  preferable  to  an  artificial  nose, —  a  bogus  frontis 
piece, — a  mere  nasal  hypocrisy,  however  beautiful.  It 
is  a  remark  of  Lessing  that  "every  man  has  his  own 
style,  like  his  own  nose;"  commenting  on  which,  Car- 
lyle  adds,  that  no  nose  can  be  justly  amputated  by  the 
public,  if  only  it  be  a  real  nose,  and  no  wooden  one 
put  on  for  mere  show  and  deception. 

It  is  a  profound  remark  of  the  Eoman  poet,  Mar 
tial,  that  not  every  man  is  so  lucky  as  to  have  a  nose. 


NOSES.  271 

The  observation  is  more  applicable  to  his  own  country 
than  to  ours,  for  it  may  be  questioned  whether  in  a 
climate  like  ours,  made  up  chiefly  of  highly  concen 
trated  and  biting  Northeasters,  and  where  flowers  are 
so  scentless  and  transitory,  noses  are  not  sometimes  an 
inconvenience  as  well  as  a  blessing.  We  have  six  bleak 
months  in  our  solar  year,  in  which  the  sensation  pro 
duced  by  cold  upon  the  nose  is  as  though  a  rat  were 
hanging  from  the  tip  of  it  by  his  teeth. 

We  conclude  our  nasological  observations  with  a 
sonnet  by  Horace  Smith,  the  banker-poet,  who. is  evi 
dently  "up  to  snuff,"  and  speaks  what  he  knows: 

O  nose!  thou  rudder  in  my  face's  centre, 

Since  I  must  follow  thee  until  I  die ; 
Since  we  are  bound  together  by  indenture, — 

The  master  thou,  and  the  apprentice  I : 
Oh !  be  to  your  Telemachus  a  mentor, 

Though  oft  invisible,  forever  nigh  : 
Guard  him  from  all  disgrace  and  misadventure, 

From  hostile  tweak,  or  Love's  blind  mastery. 
So  shalt  thou  quit  the  city's  stench  and  smoke 
For  hawthorn  lanes  and  copses  of  young  oak, 

Scenting  the  gales  of  heaven  that  have  not  yet 
Lost  their  fresh  fragrance  since  the  morning  broke, 

And  breath  of  flowers  with  rosy  May-dews  wet, 

The  primrose  —  cowslip  —  bluebell  —  violet. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  WATERLOO.* 


Singuliere  campagne,  oh  fai  vu  trois  fois  s'echapper  de  nos 
mains  le  triomphe  de  la  France! — NAPOLEON. 

OF  the  sixteen  or  seventeen  decisive  battles  of  the 
world,  there  is  no  one  of  deeper  interest,  if  there 
is  one  of  greater  importance,  than  the  battle  of  Water 
loo.  Fought  by  the  greatest  Generals  of  the  world,  at 
the  very  prime  of  their  reputation,  and  being,  as  it 
were,  the  crown  and  finish,  not  only  of  a  splendid 
piece  of  strategy,  but  of  the  experience  of  twenty  years' 
war,  this  duel,  which  closed  the  wars  of  the  French 
Revolution,  is  one  which  will  always  be  invested  with 
a  peculiar  fascination  for  the  reader,  whether  viewed 
in  itself  only,  or  in  connection  with  the  vast  results 
that  hung  on  its  issue.  Never  was  a  victory  more 
complete  than  that  of  the  allied  armies.  It  was  not 
only  a  defeat  of  the  French  army  and  its  chief;  it  was 
an  extermination.  It  was  a  shipwreck  of  a  people. 
On  the  18th  of  June,  1815,  between  sunrise  and  sun 
set,  the  French  empire  breathed  its  last  breath;  at 
eight  o'clock  in  the  morning  it  stood  erect,  with  all 
its  hopes, —  at  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening  it  was  only 
a  name  and  a  recollection. 

Why  was  this?  How  happened  it  that  the  hero  of 
Austerlitz,  and  Jena,  and  Wagram,  whose  genius  had 
never  shone  forth  more  resplendently  than  while  fight 
ing  against  fearful  odds  in  the  last  campaign  before 

*  See  the  map  at  the  end  of  this  essay. 


THE   BATTLE  OF  WATEELOO.  273 

his  banishment  to  Elba,  was  now,  after  a  hundred  vic 
tories,  foiled  ?  Was  it  because,  as  is  popularly  supposed, 
Marshal  Grouchy  was  treacherous,  and  failed  to  inter 
cept  the  Prussians,  and  because  of  the  heavy  rains 
which  delayed  Napoleon's  attack  till  nearly  noon, —  or 
was  it  because  of  the  superior  energy,  strategy,  and, 
above  all,  promptness  of  his  foes,  that  he  was  so  over 
whelmingly  defeated?  These  questions  we  purpose  to 
answer;  and  if  we  succeed  in  disabusing  any  reader 
of  the  notion  that  the  Emperor  was  beaten  through  no 
fault  of  his  own,  simply  because  "the  stars  fought 
against  him  in  their  courses,"  and  that  he  never  showed 
more  consummate  generalship  than  on  the  fatal  day 
when  he  left  the  field  of  Waterloo  for  exile,  premature 
decay,  and  a  grave  amidst  "the  immensity  of  the  seas," 
—  we  shall  deem  our  labor  well  expended. 

The  truth  is,  Napoleon  owed  his  defeat  to  himself 
alone, —  to  a  series  of  blunders  and  delays  which  he 
would  have  denounced  as  unpardonable  in  another  chief. 
Probably  no  one  of  his  campaigns  was  more  sagaciously 
planned.  The  brilliancy  and  justness  of  his  conception 
are  admitted  by  every  authority  except  Wellington,  nay, 
even  by  critics  who  utterly  condemn  his  execution,  and 
who  charge  the  failure  to  his  inexplicable  mismanage 
ment.  His  first  great  error  was  in  beginning  the  cam 
paign  with  such  an  inferiority  in  numbers.  The  troops 
of  Wellington  and  Blucher  numbered  about  226,000 
men,  with  496  guns.  Napoleon's  army  amounted  to 
124,000  combatants,  mostly  veterans,  with  344  guns, 
and  under  tried  commanders.  Of  this  force,  22,000 
were  cavalry,  and  10,000  artillery.  Compact  in  organiza 
tion,  homogeneous  in  composition,  speaking  one  tongue, 
moving  by  the  volition  of  a  single  will,  devoted  to  its 
chief,  and  inspired  "not  merely  with  enthusiasm,  but 


274  THE   BATTLE  OF  WATERLOO. 

an  actual  passion  against  its  enemies,"  it  must  be 
admitted  that  it  was  one  of  the  most  compactly  for 
midable  masses  of  troops  ever  moved  into  the  field  of 
war.  But  Napoleon  had,  at  various  points  in  France, 
not  less  than  164,000  troops  of  the  line,  and  about 
220,000  of  different  reserves,  such  as  gardes  mobiles, 
old  soldiers,  and  sailors  drawn  from  retreat,  chasseurs 
of  the  Alps  and  Pyrenees,  etc. ;  and  what  was  there  to 
prevent  his  adding  40,000  or  50,000  of  these  to  the 
army  with  which  he  was  moving  upon  Belgium?  By 
so  doing,  he  might  have  fought  Wellington  and  Blu- 
cher,  confessedly  the  bitterest  and  most  powerful  of 
his  foes,  with  175,000  men  and  500  guns;  and  as  the 
English  and  Prussians  alone  fought  with  vengeful  feel 
ings,  like  men  personally  interested  in  the  quarrel,  and 
impelled,  too,  by  a  fanatical  love  of  honor,  it  was  vitally 
important  to  cruah-them  at  all  hazards.  The  Emperor 
himself  acknowledged  that  a  victory  over  these  enemies 
would  have  probably  broken  the  alliance.  To  beat  the 
allies  out  of  Belgium  by  a  masterstroke  before  the 
Austrians  were  ready  for  action, —  to  win  that  country 
to  his  side,  and  excite  a  movement  in  his  favor  among 
the  small  German  states,  which  should  end  in  dissolv 
ing  the  coalition, — these,  he  tells  us,  were  the  objects 
he  had  in  view.  The  Prussians  and  English  crushed, 
he  would  have  troubled  himself  little  about  the  gigantic 
hosts  which  the  coalition  was  rolling  up  from  the  South 
and  West.  Of  all  soldiers  the  French  need  most  to  be 
encouraged  by  early  successes.  Defeat  at  the  beginning 
of  a  war  greatly  demoralizes  them.  Napoleon  should 
have  neglected  no  precaution,  therefore,  to  insure  a 
victory  at  the  start  in  "the  Cockpit  of  Europe." 

On  the  15th  of  June  the  campaign   began.     Napo 
leon  had  ordered  the  left  and   centre   of  his  army, — 


THE   BATTLE   OF  WATERLOO.  275 

which  was  all  to  concentrate  at  Charleroi,  thirty-four 
miles  south  of  Brussels, —  to  move  at  three  A.  M.;  but, 
by  sending  his  orders  to  Vandamme,  the  commander 
of  the  vanguard,  by  only  one  messenger,  who  was  cap 
tured  by  the  enemy,  seven  precious  hours  were  lost,  and 
a  considerable  portion  of  the  army, —  at  least  35,000 
men, — did  not  cross  the  Sambre  till  the  next  day.  An 
indirect  result  of  this  delay  was  that  Ney,  instead  of 
advancing  to  Quatre  Bras  that  night,  did  not  reach  it 
till  next  day.  Nevertheless,  Napoleon  had  at  night 
about  90,000  men  on  the  north  bank  of  the  river,  and 
the  Prussians,  under  Zieten,  though  fighting  bravely, 
had  been  driven  back  on  Fleurus  at  every  point.  Blu- 
cher  had  but  one  corps,  namely,  Zieten's,  of  30,000 
men,  on  the  ground  chosen  by  the  allies  for  a  battle ; 
another,  Pirch's,  comprising  32,000,  was  at  Mazy,  on 
the  road  from  Namur,  six  miles  east;  a  third,  Thiel- 
mann's,  24,000,  was  at  Namur,  on  the  road  from  Ciney, 
fifteen  miles  away;  and  the  fourth,  under  Bulow,  30,000 
men,  was  at  Liege,  a  distance  of  sixty  miles.  Mean 
time  Wellington  had  not  moved  a  man  to  meet  the 
enemy,  and  had  ordered  a  concentration,  which  would 
have  left  Ney  at  liberty  to  push  within  fourteen  miles 
of  Brussels.  The  French  advance  was  almost  within 
gunshot  of  Zieten's  corps  at  Fleurus;  why,  then,  did 
not  Napoleon  attack  the  Prussians  early  the  next  morn 
ing,  before  Thielmann  could  come  to  their  aid,  when 
their  defeat  would  have  been  sure?  The  Napoleon  of 
Austerlitz  and  Rivoli  would  have  hurled  his  men  at 
daybreak  on  the  enemy;  in  which  case,  with  his  great 
numerical  superiority,  he  could  have  scattered  them 
like  sheep.  Scattered  as  they  were,  the  Prussian  corps 
must  infallibly  have  been  beaten  in  detail.  Instead  of 
this,  it  was  not  until  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning, 


276          THE  BATTLE  OF  WATERLOO. 

five  hours  later,  that  the  dispositions  of  the  day  had 
been  made;  and  seven  or  eight  precious  hours  in  all 
had  passed  away  before  his  troops  began  to  move. 

By  that  time  the  Prussians  had  collected  three-fourths 
of  their  army  in  position  at  Ligny,  to  do  him  battle. 
Blucher  stood  awaiting  the  shock  of  what  he  thought 
the  whole  French  army,  with  85,000  men ;  while  Napo 
leon,  who  thought  he  had  only  the  right  wing  of  the 
Prussians  in  front  of  him,  was  about  to  fight  them  with 
only  65,000  men.  Why  was  this  disparity  of  numbers  ? 
Because  of  the  Emperor's  delay,  and  because  Lobau, 
with  10,500  men,  had  been  kept  back  at  Charleroi  as  a 
reserve.  Napoleon's  plan  of  battle,  as  stated  in  a  des 
patch  to  Ney  was  this:  Grouchy  was  to  attack  a  body 
of  the  enemy  posted  between  Sombreffe  and  Bry;  Ney 
was  also  to  attack  sharply  what  was  before  him,  and, 
after  routing  it,  to  wheel  and  aid  in  enveloping  this 
corps.  If  the  latter  were  first  pierced,  the  Emperor 
would  mano3uvre  in  the  Marshal's  direction.  The  bat 
tle  began  at  half-past  two  o'clock,  and  raged  with  great 
fury  for  five  and  a  half  hours,  when,  at  last,  the  Prussian 
centre  was  pierced,  and  their  position  carried,  with  the 
loss  of  twenty-one  guns.  Let  us  add  that  the  Prussians 
fought  with  an  obstinacy  which  can  be  accounted  for 
only  by  the  positive  hatred  which,  as  we  have  already 
said,  they  felt  toward  the  French  army.  "  Man  engaged 
man,"  says  an  eye-witness,  "with  all  the  animosity  of 
personal  rancor.  It  appeared  as  if  each  had  encountered 
in  the  individual  who  confronted  him  his  mortal  enemy." 
The  main  object  of  the  battle  of  Ligny,  with  Napoleon, 
was  to  prevent  the  junction  of  the  two  allied  armies; 
the  secondary  object  to  rout  his  enemy.  The  strategic 
point  of  the  Prussian  position,  therefore,  was  evidently 
the  Prussian  right,  and  hence  Napoleon  did  wrong 


THE   BATTLE   OF  WATERLOO.  277 

in  attacking  the  enemy  at  all  points  at  once;  for  suc 
cess  itself  could  only  drive  Blucher's  troops  back  upon 
Wellington,  when  the  English  and  Prussians  should 
have  been  separated  at  all  hazards.  Nevertheless,  the 
Prussians  got  what  Wellington,  on  surveying  the  ground 
that  morning,  had  predicted,  "an  awful  thrashing,"  and 
Blucher  himself  was  wounded.  But  now  it  was  night 
fall,  and  under  the  cover  of  the  darkness,  the  defeated 
army,  by  ten  o'clock,  under  the  command  of  Gneisenau, 
was  safely  retreating  northward  on  Wavre,  eleven  miles 
east  of  Waterloo. 

Meanwhile,  by  the  mistake  of  an  aide-de-camp, 
D'Erlon's  corps  of  20,000  men,  which  should  have  aided 
Ney  in  attacking  the  English  at  Quatre  Bras,  had  been 
passing  the  whole  afternoon  in  marching  and  counter 
marching  between  the  road  to  that  place  and  Ligny. 
So  ignorant  was  Napoleon  of  the  movements  of  this 
force,  that  its  appearance  on  his  left  paralyzed  his  own 
operations ;  and  he  checked  the  grand  and  decisive  charge 
which  he  was  about  to  make  on  the  enemy  with  the 
Imperial  Guard,  in  order  to  receive  this  supposed  dan 
gerous  intruder.  D'Erlon's  corps  had  actually  been 
mistaken  for  Prussians,  and  the  redisposition  of  his  troops 
lost  Napoleon  another  half-hour.  Had  D'Erlon,  with 
his  20,000  men  and  forty-six  guns,  combined  with  the 
Emperor  in  his  attack  on  Blucher,  who  can  doubt  that 
the  French  would  have  inflicted  on  the  Prussians  a  defeat 
so  smashing  as  to  have  prevented  them  from  rallying 
in  season  to  aid  Wellington  at  Waterloo?  As  it  was, 
D'Erlon  helped  neither  Ney  nor  the  Emperor.  Going 
back  to  Quatre  Bras,  he  arrived  too  late,  for  Wellington 
had  now  30,000  men  on  the  ground,  and  Ney,  finally 
outnumbered,  was  driven  back  on  Frasnes.  All  the 
blunders  of  the  allies  were  redeemed  by  the  bold  order 


278  THE   BATTLE   OF  WATERLOO. 

for  the  retreat  on  Wavre.  By  moving  on  a  line  parallel 
to  the  road  by  which  Wellington  must  retire,  the  Prus 
sians  snatched  from  Napoleon  the  hoped-for  fruits  of 
his  victory;  and  his  own  want  of  insight  into  their 
new  combination  made  complete  the  triumph  they  had 
prepared. 

Having  lost  seven  or  eight  precious  hours  on  the  16th, 
Napoleon  must  lose  nine  or  ten  more  the  next  day.  Fan 
cying  that  the  Prussians  were  in  full  retreat  eastivard,  on 
the  road  to  Namur,  he  took  no  steps  towards  pursuing 
them  till  noon.  Neither  did  he  molest  the  English  till 
the  same  hour,  when  he  gave  directions  for  attacking 
them  in  flank.  Had  he  marched  by  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  he  could  have  moved  directly  upon  Wellington's 
rear  "and  left  flank,  and,  placed  thus  between  the  Empe 
ror's  troops  on  ftie  one  hand  and  Ney's  force  of  40,000 
men  on  the  other,  the  British  commander  would  have 
been  completely  enveloped.  Wellington  knew  nothing 
of  the  result  at  Ligny  till  some  hours  after  daybreak,  and, 
when  the  news  came,  he  was  astonished  at  the  dilatori- 
ness  of  the  French.  He  then  coolly  retreated,  and,  when 
his  adversary  got  ready  to  move,  was  already  well  advanced 
towards  Waterloo.  Of  all  Napoleon's  inexplicable  acts, 
the  most  puzzling  is  this  dilly-dallying  for  so  many  hours 
at  Ligny.  He  had  often  said  that  the  reason  why  the 
Austrian s  lost  so  many  battles  was  because  they  did  not 
know  the  value  of  five  minutes.  Yet  here  he  was  wasting 
hours  inestimably  precious, —  nay,  an  entire  half  day, —  in 
talking  with  the  Prussian  prisoners,  and  conversing  with 
his  Generals  on  party  politics,  the  Royalists  and  Jacobins, 
and  other  such  topics. 

It  was  after  mid-day  when  he  called  Grouchy  to  his 
side,  and  placing  under  him  33,000  men,  directed  him 
to  pursue  the  Prussians,  complete  their  defeat,  and  report 


THE  BATTLE   OF  WATERLOO. 

to  him  by  the  Namur  road.  Grouchy,  justly  disliking 
so  vague  a  charge,  with  such  critical  responsibility,  re 
monstrated  against  this  order;  and,  showing  that  it  would 
be  next  to  an  impossibility  to  overtake  or  discover  the 
Prussians,  with  their  long  start  in  advance,  begged  to 
go  with  the  Emperor  against  the  English.  Immovable 
in  his  decision,  and  asking  him  if  "  he  pretended  to  give 
him  lessons,"  Napoleon  directed  him  to  march  on  Gem- 
bloux,  and  find  out  at  what  the  Prussians  were  driving. 
He  did  not,  however,  at  any  time,  order  Grouchy  to 
reconnoitre  the  roads  between  the  Marshals  line  and  his 
own,  by  which  the  whole  of  Zieten's  and  Pirch's  corps 
had  gone  to  Wavre.  The  Prussian  army  at  that  place 
was  now  strengthened  by  the  junction  of  Bulow's  troops, 
30,000  strong,  which  had  taken  no  part  in  the  fight  at 
Ligny.  Meanwhile,  Wellington,  before  deciding  to  fight 
on  his  chosen  ground  next  day,  had  had  the  full  as 
surance  of  support  by  Blucher.  Wellington  had  68,000 
men  only  on  the  field,  but  had  18,000  on  detachment 
ten  miles  to  his  right,  and  90,000  Prussians  twelve  miles 
to  his  left,  while  Napoleon's  fighting  strength  was  re 
duced  to  72,000  men.  The  only  possible  aid  the  latter 
could  receive  was  from  Grouchy's  33,000;  and  these 
were  double  the  distance  from  him  that  Bluchers  army 
was,  and  this  owing  to  his  own  orders!  Is  it  not  evi 
dent  from  these  facts  that  the  hero  of  Austerlitz  had 
been  completely  out-mano3uvred,  and  that,  both  by  the 
superior  strategy  of  the  enemy  and  his  own  blunders, 
he  was  placed  at  a  fearful  disadvantage  in  the  struggle 
of  the  morrow  ? 

The  counsel  of  Grouchy  that  the  whole  French  army 
should  pursue  the  English,  was  undoubtedly  the  best 
that  could  be  given.  Had  Napoleon  accepted  it  instead 
of  sending  off  the  Marshal  on  a  wild-goose  chase  after 


280  THE  BATTLE  OF  WATERLOO. 

the  Prussians,  the  result  at  Waterloo  might  have  been 
wholly  different.  He  would  then  have  had  a  hundred 
thousand  men  at  Waterloo,  besides  force  enough  to  defend 
his  left  flank  against  Bulow.  Though  he  made  a  num 
ber  of  glaring  blunders  on  that  day,  it  was  the  lack  of 
troops  which,  as  much  as  any  other  cause,  caused  his 
overthrow.  His  attacking  force  was  weakened  to  the 
extent  of  16,500  men  by  the  necessity  of  keeping  off  the 
Prussians  from  his  right.  Napoleon's  worshipers  are 
always  declaiming  about  the  treachery  or  stupidity 
of  Grouchy.  Had  he  not  been  a  dull  leader  or  a 
traitor,  they  say,  he  would  have  marched  on  the  18th 
upon  Waterloo.  But  if  he  was  wanted  at  Waterloo,  why, 
in  the  name  of  common  sense,  did  Napoleon  send 
him  in  the  opposite  direction?  The  Emperor's  orders 
were,  "  Move  to  Gembloux.  You  will  reconnoitre  the 
roads  to  Namur  and  Maestrecht,  and  will  follow  up  the 
enemy."  Grouchy's  conduct,  his  position  at  nightfall, 
and  his  occupation  by  cavalry  of  Sart-les-Walhain,  were 
the  exact  performance  of  these  orders.  Struggling  along 
in  the  torrents  of  rain  and  over  frightful  roads,  he  made 
the  utmost  progress  possible.  It  was  not  Grouchy  who 
put  off  the  hour  of  pursuit  until  the  fine  half  of  the  day 
was  spent  It  was  not  Grouchy  who  sent  Grouchy  to 
the  east  instead  of  north  toward  Wavre,  where  the 
Prussians  were  concentrating,  or  west  across  the  Dyle. 
It  was  not  till  two  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  the  18th 
that  the  Marshal  learned  what  route  the  Prussians  had 
taken. 

But  why,  it  is  said,  did  he  not  march  upon  Water 
loo  at  eleven  o'clock,  when  the  deep  and  constant  roll 
ing  from  the  left  told  his  practised  ears  that  Napoleon 
was  engaged  in  another  general  battle?  Why,  let  us 
ask  in  return,  did  Napoleon  send  him  so  far  a-field 


THE  BATTLE   OF  WATERLOO.  281 

that  he  could  not  have  reached  Waterloo  until  the  fate 
of  the  day  was  decided?  It  has  been  shown  conclu 
sively  that,  with  the  utmost  exertions,  Grouchy  could 
not  have  got  his  troops  over  the  fourteen  miles  of  diffi 
cult  ground,  as  the  roads  then  were,  and  with  an  un 
certain  river  passage  to  make,  in  less  than  eight  or 
nine  hours, — that  is,  at  seven  or  eight  in  the  evening. 
At  four  in  the  afternoon  he  received  his  first  and  only 
communication  from  Napoleon,  distinctly  telling  him 
that  the  Emperor  was  about  to  fight  the  English  at 
Waterloo,  and  ordering  him  "  to  direct  Ms  movements  on 
Wavre"  What  more  natural  than  that  the  Marshal 
should  thereupon  conclude  his  noonday  choice  to  push 
on  to  that  place,  instead  of  wheeling  about  towards 
Waterloo,  to  have  been  the  correct  one  ?  The  rest  of 
this  letter, —  which  we  have  not  space  to  quote, —  shows 
that  even  then  Napoleon,  though  made  aware  that  some 
of  the  retreating  Prussians  had  moved  in  a  line  parallel 
to  his  own,  looked  on  them  as  a  mere  detachment, 
and  still  clung  to  the  delusion  that  a  great  part,  at 
least,  of  Blucher's  troops  had  gone  eastward.  How 
ridiculous,  then,  Napoleon's  complaints  against  the  Mar 
shal  for  not  aiding  him  in  his  last  struggle!  As  the 
Marshal  himself  justly  said,  a  Lieutenant  cannot  conduct 
a  war  of  inspirations,  but  must  obey  orders.  Never  was 
a  brave  officer  more  outrageously  maligned, —  never  was 
a  single  reputation  more  grossly  sacrificed  to  salve 
national  vanity, —  than  in  this  matter  of  Grouchy  and 
Waterloo.  That  his  old  age  was  not  crowned  with 
honor,  is  due  simply  to  the  popular  cry  in  France  for 
a  scapegoat  to  bear  the  shame  of  her  defeat,  and  to 
the  readiness  with  which  Napoleon  supplied  it  in  his 
Lieutenant. 

Even   had   Grouchy   overtaken    the   Prussians    after 


282  THE   BATTLE  OF  WATERLOO. 

their  unmolested  retreat,  he  had  not  force  enough  to  cope 
with  them.  Blucher's  army,  be  it  remembered,  though 
beaten  back  at  Ligny,  was  neither  routed  nor  disheart 
ened.  At  Wavre  it  was  joined  by  30,000  men  under 
Bulow,  who  had  not  been  under  fire.  In  spite  of  his 
defeat,  Blucher  was  as  indefatigable  as  ever  in  bringing 
his  men  into  action  again,  and  had  the  resolution  to 
expose  a  part  of  his  army,  under  Thielmann,  to  be  over 
whelmed  by  Grouchy  at  Wavre  on  the  18th,  while  he 
urged  on  the  mass  of  his  troops  over  the  swampy  roads 
to  Waterloo.  "  It  is  not  at  Wavre,  but  at  Waterloo," 
said  the  old  Field-Marshal,  "  that  the  campaign  is  to  be 
decided;"  and  he  risked  a  detachment,  and  won  the 
campaign  accordingly. 

The  sum  of  the  whole  matter  is  this :  Napoleon  made 
two  fatal  mistakes,  first,  in  permitting  himself  to  be 
ignorant  of  the  direction  of  the  Prussian  retreat,  and  of 
their  flank  march  from  Wavre ;  and  second,  in  supposing 
that,  without  the  aid  of  Grouchy,  he  could  whip  Wel 
lington.  Up  to  the  17th,  all  had  prospered  with  him ; 
but  from  that  hour  his  star  of  destiny  steadily  waned. 
On  the  morning  of  that  day  he  was  operating  with 
100,000  men  against  200,000.  It  was  absolutely  indis 
pensable,  therefore,  that  he  should  defeat,  separate,  and 
paralyze  the  armies  of  Wellington  and  Blucher,  as  his 
only  hope  of  reestablishing  himself  on  the  throne  of 
France.  The  Anglo-Allied  army  was  the  greatest  obsta 
cle  in  his  way,  and  against  it  he  should  have  led  his 
last  man  and  horse ;  for,  the  English  defeated,  it  would 
have  been  comparatively  easy  to  crush  the  Prussians. 
Instead  of  doing  this,  and  playing  a  great  game  as  he 
should  have  done  when  all  his  fortunes  were  staked,  he 
divided  his  army,  and  from  that  hour  his  doom  was 
sealed.  The  strategy  to  which  he  had  looked  to  atone, 


THE   BATTLE   OF  WATERLOO.  283 

as  in  his  early  glories,  for  inferiority  of  numbers,  failed 
him  utterly  when  opposed  to  the  concerted  union  of 
Blucher  and  Wellington,  and  in  the  desperate  struggle 
of  the  18th,  the  sword  was  wrested  from  his  grasp  for 
ever.  Of  that  memorable  fight  we  shall  now  proceed  to 
speak. 

Notwithstanding  his  blunders  on  the  16th  and  17th, 
Napoleon  on  the  morning  of  the  18th  was  fully  confident 
of  success.  Believing  that  he  would  have  only  the 
English  to  contend  with,  he  felt  sure  of  victory,  and,  on 
seeing  them  posted  before  the  forest  of  Soignes,  he 
exclaimed,  "At  last  I  have  them  !  Tliere  are  nine  chances 
to  one  in  my  favor"  Marshal  Soult  warned  him  not  to 
be  too  confident,  and  Gen.  Foy  observed,  "  The  English 
infantry  are  the  very  devil  in  the  fight " ;  but  the  Emperor 
treated  their  remonstrances  with  contempt :  "  You  think, 
because  he  beat  you,  that  Wellington  is  a  great  General." 
His  whole  air  and  bearing  was  that  of  one  who  scented 
a  coming  triumph,  and  he  indicated  neither  by  word 
nor  look  that  he  feared  such  a  disaster  as  might  follow 
the  arrival  of  a  fresh  army  on  his  flank.  In  his  own 
narratives  of  the  battle  there  is  no  allusion  to  any  possi 
ble  aid  from  Grouchy,  nor  any  hint  that  he  thought 
the  Prussians  near. 

From  midday  on  the  17th  to  four  o'clock  in  the 
morning  of  the  18th,  the  rain  had  been  pouring  down 
in  torrents,  the  ground  was  terribly  beaten  up,  and  the 
troops  on  both  sides  had  suffered  much  in  their  marches 
and  in  the  bivouacs.  Was  this  the  reason  that  led 
Napoleon  to  suspend  his  attack  till  eleven  o'clock  in  the 
forenoon  ?  Did  the  miry  state  of  the  soil  make  it  impossi 
ble  for  his  cavalry  or  artillery  to  manoeuvre  till  after 
the  sun  had  shone  for  some  hours,  or  was  he  trying  to 


284          THE  BATTLE  OF  WATERLOO. 

strike  terror  into  a  part  of  the  motley  army  opposed 
to  him  by  an  imposing  array  of  his  forces?  Did  he 
secretly  cherish  a  hope  that  the  Belgian  regiments  would 
quit  Wellington  in  a  body,  and  range  themselves  under 
his  own  eagles?  Be  all  this  as  it  may,  he  again  lost 
hours,  when  every  minute  was  precious  to  him,  and 
played  into  the  very  hands  of  his  enemies.  Had  he 
begun  the  attack  two  or  three  hours  sooner,  he  might 
have  thrown  his  whole  army  upon  Wellington,  and  thus, 
perhaps,  have  crushed  him  before  Bulow  arrived.  Gen 
eral  Jomini,  an  acute  French  critic,  denies  the  validity  of 
the  Emperor's  excuse  touching  the  state  of  the  ground ; 
and  Brialmont,  the  able  Belgian  critic,  holds  the  same 
opinion;  "ground is  not  made  much  better,"  he  says,  "by 
a  few  hours  of  dry  weather."  Besides  this,  Napoleon  him 
self  tells  us  in  his  Memoires,  that  the  artillery  officers 
who  had  examined  the  ground  announced  at  eight  o'clock 
that  the  guns  could  be  manoeuvred,  though  with  some 
difficulty;  and  we  know  that  Wellington  by  the  same 
hour  had  made  all  his  dispositions  for  the  battle. 

The  position  in  which  "the  Iron  Duke"  awaited 
the  attack  of  his  adversary,  and  which  he  had  sur 
veyed  a  year  before  for  this  purpose,  was  one  of  great 
natural  strength,  and  its  selection  was  a  proof  of  his 
military  sagacity.  Let  any  one  traverse  the  field,  as  we 
have,  and,  after  a  careful  survey,  he  will  find  it  hard 
to  regard  the  battle,  as  delivered  by  Napoleon,  as  better 
than  butchery.  The  scene  of  the  battle,  as  is  well 
known,  was  a  valley  between  two  and  three  miles  long, 
of  various  breadths  at  different  points,  but  generally 
not  exceeding  half  a  mile.  On  each  side  of  the  valley 
there  is  a  winding  chain  of  low  hills  running  nearly 
parallel  with  each  other.  The  English  army  was  posted 
on  the  Northern,  the  French  army  on  the  Southern 


THE   BATTLE   OF  WATERLOO.  285 

ridge.  The  highroad  from  Charleroi  to  Brussels  bisects 
both  the  French  and  English  positions  nearly  in  the 
centre.  Merk  Braine,  a  village  and  a  ravine,  secured 
Wellington's  right,  while  his  left  was  less  strongly 
protected  by  two  small  hamlets,  called  La  Haye  and 
Papillote.  The  key  to  his  position  was  an  old  Flemish 
farm-house  of  brick,  called  Hougoumont,  which,  with 
its  outbuildings  and  large  garden  inclosed  by  a  very 
high  and  strong  brick  wall, —  also  its  orchard,  and 
copse  of  beech  trees,  of  about  two  acres,  surrounding  it, 
and  pond  serving  as  a  moat, —  was  a  small  fortress. 
This  stronghold,  which  fronted  the  British  right,  was 
strengthened  by  loopholing  the  walls  for  musketry  fire, 
and,  by  the  erection  of  scaffolding,  to  enable  the  troops 
within  the  garden  to  fire  from  the  top  of  the  wall. 
Nearly  in  front  of  the  British  centre,  at  a  less  distance 
down  the  slope,  was  another  smaller  farm-house,  called 
La  Haye  Sainte,  which,  like  Hougoumont,  was  filled 
with  English  troops,  and  not  a  little  strengthened  the 
English  position.  During  the  whole  of  this  fierce  con 
test  there  was  no  strategy, — no  attempt  at  turning 
flanks, — but  all  was  straightforward  fighting,  from  the 
first  gun  to  the  last. 

Napoleon's  first  mistake,  we  have  seen,  was  in  delay 
ing  his  attack  till  nearly  noon.  A  far  greater  blunder 
was  his  neglect  to  occupy  with  a  small  infantry  force 
the  "Wood  of  Paris,  through  which  the  Prussians  had 
to  pass  on  their  way  from  Wavre  to  attack  his  right 
wing.  By  this  neglect,  Bulow  was  enabled  to  form 
therein  and  debouch  upon  his  right,  to  defend  which 
Napoleon  was  compelled  to  detach  during  the  battle 
not  less  than  16,500  of  his  choicest  men,  and  66  guns, 
which  he  had  intended  to  employ  against  Wellington. 
Of  this  we  shall  speak  again  in  a  more  appropriate 


286  THE   BATTLE  OF  WATERLOO. 

place.  His  next  mistake  was  in  throwing  away  so  many 
troops  on  the  almost  impregnable  fortress, —  for  such 
the  English  had  made  it, —  of  Hougoumont.  Napoleon 
began  the  battle  by  hurling  Jerome's  division  against 
that  post.  Had  "the  Iron  Duke"  himself  chosen  the 
point  at  which  he  should  be  assailed,  he  would  un 
questionably  have  selected  that.  It  was  the  very  strong 
est  British  bulwark.  Column  after  column  of  the 
French  swept  down  the  ridges,  and  assailed  it  with 
fiery  valor;  but  it  was  like  butting  their  heads  against 
a  wall.  It  has  been  well  said  that  "all  defensive  posi 
tions  would  be  successful,  if  the  adversary  would  attack 
them  on  the  points  where  there  are  the  best  advantages 
for  receiving  him.  Few  defensive  positions  are  success 
ful,  because  the  adversary  is  generally  cruel  enough  to 
attack  them  in  quite  a  different  place."  Not  so  with 
Napoleon;  against  Hougoumont  he  sent  10,000  men, 
all  of  whom  were  placed,  sooner  or  later,  Jiors  du  com 
bat.  Foy's  division  alone  lost  3,000  men;  1,500  fell  in 
a  single  half-hour. 

The  wood  which  surrounds  the  chateau,  and  which 
was  occupied  by  some  of  the  British  guards,  was  taken 
and  retaken  several  times,  and  finally  remained  in  the 
possession  of  the  French ;  but  the  chateau  itself  was  im 
pregnable  to  the  last.  Why,  at  the  outset,  a  strong 
howitzer  battery  was  not  directed  upon  it,  as  it  was 
after  some  hours,  nobody  can  tell.  Only  the  upper 
part  of  the  walls  and  buildings,  however,  was  assailable 
by  cannon;  they  could  be  reached  only  by  shells. 
There  was  no  necessity,  we  think,  for  making  a  for 
midable  attack  upon  this  post,  for  it  lay  in  front  of 
the  British  extreme  right,  and  might  have  been  neg 
lected  by  the  Emperor  altogether.  His  aim  should 
have  been  to  overwhelm  the  British  left,  where  they 


THE   BATTLE   OF  WATERLOO.  287 

were  weakest,  and  where  the  Prussians  were  expected 
to  join  them.  It  has  been  said  that  this  was  pre 
cisely  the  object  of  Napoleon,— that  in  the  attack  on 
Hougoumont  he  was  only  manceuvering  to  draw  off 
the  attention  of  "Wellington  to  his  right,  and  thus  to 
mask  the  main  attack  on  his  left.  If  this  was  so, 
why  did  Napoleon  send  so  many  troops  against  the 
chateau,  when  he  saw  that  he  was  only  sending  them 
to  be  butchered  —  to  instant  death?  A  very  strange 
kind  of  feigned  attack,  surely ! 

About   half-past   one  o'clock,  Napoleon  perceived  at 
a  great  distance  a  sort  of  mirage,  or  mist,  which  some 
declared   to   be  troops  in  motion,  some  to  be  a  column 
halted,  and  others  to  be  trees.    It  was  soon  discovered 
to   be  a  body  of  troops  in  motion,  on  the  hill  of  St. 
Lambert;  but  whether  they  were  Prussians,  or  a  detach 
ment  of  Grouchy's  force,  none  could  tell.     The  appa 
rition  did  not  apparently  alarm  Napoleon,  as  he  sent 
only    two   divisions   of  light   cavalry,    2,400   sabres,  to 
check  the  strange  corps.     He  was  not  long  in  igno 
rance.    A  Prussian  hussar  was  brought  in  with  a  letter 
from   Bulow,    announcing   his   arrival   at   St.  Lambert, 
about  midway  between   Wavre  and  Waterloo.     Bulow 
had  been  delayed  for  two  hours  by  a  fire  breaking  out 
in  Wavre  in  the  narrow  street  through  which  his  corps 
defiled;   and  he  was  kept  back  still  more  by  the  miry 
nature   of  the   lanes    through  which  he  had  to  march. 
On  hearing  the  alarming  intelligence  that  30,000  Prus 
sians  were  approaching  his  flank,  the  Emperor  sent  off 
Lobau  with  two  infantry  divisions  to  support  the  cav 
alry,  thus  detaching  a  force  of  10,000  men  to  resist  the 
Prussians  at  Planchenoit,  while  pressing  his  own  battle 
with  the  rest  of  his  troops.    Three  times  the  Prussians 
fought  their  way  into  that  place,  and  as  often  did  the 


288  THE  BATTLE   OF  WATERLOO. 

French  drive  them  out.  The  combat  here  was  desper 
ate  and  bloody,  the  hate  of  the  combatants  being  such 
that  quarter  was  seldom  given  or  even  asked. 

No  attempt  had  been  made  to  arrest  the  enemy  in 
their  passage  over  the  deep  valley  of  the  Lasne;  yet,  so 
difficult  was  this  by  nature,  and  so  many  were  the  ob 
stacles  in  Blucher's  way  that  it  took  three  hours  from 
Bulow's  first  appearance  on  St.  Lambert  before  half 
his  corps  could  be  brought  into  action.  It  was  half- 
past  four  when  the  Prussians  began  their  attack.  Here, 
again,  we  cannot  but  regard  Napoleon  as  guilty  of  an 
unpardonable  neglect.  Blucher  saw  at  once  the  import 
ance  of  the  steep  valley  of  the  Lasne,  and,  lest  his 
movement  should  be  discovered  and  intercepted,  seized 
the  Wood  of  Paris  on  the  other  side.  But  Napoleon, 
still  clinging  to  the  delusion  that  only  a  detachment 
or  two  of  Prussians  had  gone  to  "Wavre  after  the  fight 
at  Ligny,  had  taken  no  steps  to  prevent  their  march  to 
"Waterloo.  Upon  the  capture  of  the  huzzar,  he  at  once 
dispatched  to  Marshal  Grouchy  intelligence  of  the  inter 
cepted  letter,  with  orders  to  march  upon  St.  Lambert, 
and  take  the  enemy  in  rear.  "Lose  not  an  instant  in 
drawing  near  to  us,"  he  added, "  in  order  to  crush  Bu- 
low,  whom  you  will  catch  in  the  very  act  (en  flagrant, 
delit)."  This  letter  reached  Grouchy,  but  not  till  seven 
in  the  evening,  when  he  was  engaged  in  a  fight  with 
Thielmann.  Of  course,  he  could  lend  no  help  to  the 
Emperor  that  day,  and  was  obliged  to  content  himself 
with  the  hope  that  Napoleon  might  have  triumphed 
without  him. 

Napoleon  made,  during  the  battle,  five  distinct  at 
tacks  on  the  English  line,  only  one  of  which  was  suc 
cessful,  and  that  but  partially.  His  second  attack,  which 
was  made  by  D'Erlon's  infantry  corps,  18,000  strong, 


THE  BATTLE   OF   WATERLOO.  289 

aided  by  Kellerman's  cavalry,  was  a  furious  onslaught 
on  the  British  centre  and  left  wing.  Led  by  Ney,  "  the 
bravest  of  the  brave,"  and  supported  by  an  artillery  fire 
from  74  guns,  in  battery  upon  the  French  right,  it 
drove  before  it  the  Dutch  brigade  forming  the  front 
line  of  the  allies;  but  received  so  deadly  a  volley  from 
Picton's  English  infantry  that  it  reeled  back  in  confu 
sion,  and  lost  2,000  men  as  prisoners.  The  chief  fault 
of  this  charge  was  that  the  columns  were  too  deep  for 
attack,  and  too  close  to  be  deployed.  Unfortunately, 
owing  to  the  softness  of  the  soil,  the  artillery  was  obliged 
to  remain  stationary,  and  fifteen  pieces  were  captured 
by  the  pursuing  English  squadrons,  and  rendered  use 
less  by  being  upset  in  the  mud.  It  was  now  half-past 
three  o'clock,  and,  though  Wellington's  army  had  suf 
fered  severely,  the  British  line  remained  everywhere  un 
broken,  while  each  passing  hour  had  carried  away  a 
fragment  of  Napoleon's  Empire. 

The  third  attack  was  that  made  by  the  French 
cavalry,  unsupported,  upon  the  British  centre*  These 
magnificent  troops  passed  through  the  first  line  of  the 
enemy  shouting,  "Vive  rEmpereur!"  but  the  second 
opposed  to  them  an  impenetrable  barrier.  Squadron 
after  squadron,  amounting  to  not  less  than  12,000  men, 
dashed  against  the  British  squares,  but  in  vain.  They 
could  not  break  through  the  impenetrable  hedges  of 
bayonets,  while,  as  they  retreated,  the  fire  from  the 
inner  ranks  mowed  them  down  like  grass.  Through 
whose  fatal  blunder  the  first  brigade,  requested  by  Ney, 
was  followed  by  the  whole  of  the  reserves,  nobody  can 
tell.  It  was  a  fearful  mistake.  Napoleon  declares,  in 
his  Memoirs,  that  he  sent  Gen.  Bertrand  to  recall  them, 
but  that,  when  he  arrived,  it  was  too  late,  as  they  were 
already  engaged,  and  a  retrograde  movement  attempted 


290  THE  BATTLE  OF  WATERLOO. 

under  such  circumstances  is  very  dangerous.  After 
wards,  as  he  crossed  the  threshold  of  tlje  Tuilleries,  he 
is  said  .to  have  remarked:  "Ney  behaved  like  a  fool. 
He  sacrificed  my  cavalry."  These  stories  may  be  true, 
but  they  look  to  us  like  fictions  invented  after  the  fact. 
Can  any  one  believe  that  Napoleon,  sitting  in  the  midst 
of  a  great  battle,  fought  on  a  narrow  space,  and  sur 
rounded  by  an  ample  staff,  was  unable  t$  ^prevent  jjis 
•lieutenants  from  sacrificing  his  cavalry  at  _the  wrong 
moments?  The  murderous  loss  to  that  splendid, arm, 
which  resulted  from  the  useless  assaults  on  tke  British 
squares,  may  not  have  been  caused  by  Napoleon's  orders 
or  by  Ney's;  but  both  permitted  the  vain  charges  to 
be  repeated,  until  the  horsemen  were  almost  totally 
destroyed.  This  disaster  not  only  had  a  fatal  influence 
on  the  fortunes  of  the  day,  but  w;Jrf|fep-  main  cause 
that  Napoleon's  defeat  became  one  ^^^ne  most  over 
whelming  routs  known  in  history.^ 

Napoleon's  fourth  grand  attack^  made  by  infantry 
under  Ney's  direction,  was  the  only  successful  one  of  the 
day.  It  lodged  the  French  in  La  Haye  Sainte,  and  pene 
trated,  for  a  brief  time,  the  British  line.  The  grape- 
shot  from  several  field-pieces,  which,  the  French  had 
brought  up,  tore  fearful  gaps  in  the  German  brigades, 
and  the  side  of  one  square  was  lite'rally  blown  away  by 
a  tremendous  volley  from  the  French  guns.  Meanwhile 
the  howitzer  batteries  upon  the  French  left  had  set  fire 
to  the  chateau  of  Hougoum'ont,  where  the  English  con 
tinued  to  maintain  themselves  amid  flames  and  ruins. 
This  resistance,  however,  scarcely  arrested  the  attention 
of  the  Emperor,  who  was  concerned  wholly  about  the 
centre,  where  the  crisis  seemed  at  hand.  For  the  first 
time  the  situation  of  the  allied  army  was  really  critical. 
The  Anglo-Netherlands  troops  were  growing  impatient 


THE   BATTLE   OF   WATERLOO.  29i 

at  acting  always  on  the  defensive;  the  promised  suc 
cor  had  not  arrived;  and  Wellington  often  turned  his 
glass  toward  the  left.  Had  the  Young  Gua^d  been  pres 
ent  to  sufport  Donzelot  at  La  Haye  Sainte,  the  result 
to  Wellington  -might  have  been  most  disastrous.  Whv, 
then,  were  they  not  there  ?  Because  they  had  been  sent 
to  Planchenoit,  on  Napoleon's  right,  to  aid,  Lobau  in 
keeping  off  Bulow.  In  like  manner,  the  last  desperate 
attacks 'on  the  British  line,  made  at  half-past  seven 
o'clock,  by  the  two  columns  of  the  Imperial  Guard, 
failed  because  there  was  no  cavalry  to  support  them. 
And  why  was  there  no  cavalry?  Because  this  force 
had  been  needlessly  sacrificed  in  the  third  attack,  and 
because  some  2,500  of  them  had  been  detached  against 
the/ Prussians  early  in  the  afternoon,  when,  by  seizing 
the-defile  of  Lasnes  with  an  infantry  force,  Bulow  might 
have  been  kept  back  without  a  horseman  being  sent  to 
that;  point.  The  Guard  was  attacked  by  a  destructive 
fire  both  in  front  and  flank,  and  whole  ranks  fell  at 
once,  like  grain  before  the  reaper.  Even  under  thaw 
disadvantageous  circumstances,  it  might  have  maintained 
somewhat  longer  its  impetuous  attack,  which  has  been 
called  "the  madness  of  despair,"  but  at  this  moment  a 
cry  of  alarm  was  heard  pn'tfye  right;  it  announced  the 
arrival  of  the  Prussians  unde*  Zieten,  who,  debouching 
from  the  Chain  road  upon  the  English  left,  and,  attack 
ing  the  French  right  wing,  drove  all  before  it  In  vain 
did  Napoleon  order  uj)  his  four  squadrons  of  body 
guard,  all  .the  cavalry 'he  had  left;  what  could  that 
feeble  band  do  to  stem  xsuch  a  torrent  ?  The  allies  were 
pouring,  wave  after  wave,  across  the  plain ;  five  squares 
of  the  French  wen  l.n-k. -n.  and  cut  to  pieces;  and  now 
the  effect  produced  on  th.-  rest  of  the  French  army  by 
the  repulse  of  the  Guard  and  the  sudden  onslaught  of 


THE   BATTLE   OF   WATERLOO. 

Zieten,  was  completed  by  the  general  advance,  for  which 
Wellington,  with  the  instinct  of  genius,  suddenly  for 
sook  his  attitude  of  defence;  and,  as  Blucher's  victori 
ous  legions  were  pouring  across  the  sole  line  of  retreat, 
while  the  last  reserves  of  the  French  had  been  ex 
hausted,  the  defeat  was  turned  into  a  panic  and  a  rout 
unparalleled  in  history.  Napoleon,  seeing  that  all  was 
lost,  was  anxious  to  die  in  Cambronne's  square;  but 
Soult  turned  his  horse  away,  saying,  "Ah,  sire!  the 
enemy  are  fortunate  enough  already ! "  From  that  mo 
ment  the  man  of  destiny  fled  like  the  rest.  "  The  eagle 
was  no  more  in  the  keeping  of  the  gods." 

To  sum  all  up, — the  defeat  of  Napoleon  at  Water 
loo,  which  decided  the  fate  of  the  Empire,  and  sent 
the  victor  of  so  many  fields  an  exile  to  St.  Helena, 
was  due  to  no  accident,  but  to  his  own  blunders,  and 
the  superior  strategy  of  the  allied  Generals.  It  resulted 
simply  from  his  own  delays  before  and  after  Ligny; 
from  his  failure  to  separate  the  Prussians  in  that  bat 
tle  from  the  English,  by  attacking  their  right  wing, 
instead  of  the  centre  and  left;  from  not  employing 
D'Erlon's  corps  either  to  help  Ney  or  to  crush  the 
Prussians,  instead  of  suffering  them  to  reorganize  and 
retreat  on  Wavre ;  from  sending  Grouchy  to  the  east  to 
pursue  them,  when  they  were  out  of  his  reach,  and 
thus  placing  33,000  men  "in  the  air;"  from  fighting  a 
battle  with  Wellington  on  the  18th  of  June,  instead  of 
on  the  17th,  when  Blucher  could  not  have  helped  him ; 
from  beginning  the  battle  at  Waterloo  several  hours  too 
late;  from  the  non-occupation  of  the  Wood  of  Paris, 
and  the  worse  than  useless  slaughter  of  thousands  of 
brave  soldiers  at  Hougoumont;  from  the  hurling  of  his 
troops  against  the  enemy  in  too  dense  masses;  from 
the  failure  to  support  his  infantry  charges  by  cavalry, 


THE  BATTLE  OF  WATERLOO.  293 

and  his  cavalry  charges  by  a  sufficient  force  of  infant 
ry  ;  and  lastly,  from  the  terrible  mistake  of  suffering  the 
cavalry  reserves  to  be  engaged  too  soon.  "  A  few  drops 
of  water,  more  or  fewer,"  says  Victor  Hugo,  "pros 
trated  Napoleon."  What  nonsense!  Did  not  the  rain 
retard  the  Prussians  ?  What  else  was  it  but  the  execra 
ble  roads  that  kept  them  from  attacking  the  French 
several  hours  earlier?  "But  Wellington  would  have 
been  beaten,  but  for  the  arrival  of  the  Prussians."  In 
deed!  Was  he  not  looking  for  and  counting  upon  the 
approaching  army  of  his  ally  as  part  of  the  fight? 
Was  he  not  watching  from  early  afternoon  the  lessen 
ing  pressure  which  told  him  that  Napoleon  was  forced 
to  strip  himself  of  his  formidable  reserves,  to  keep  off" 
the  Prussians?  Above  all,  had  he  not  prepared,  on 
the  days  before,  in  concert  with  the  fiery  old  Prussian 
Marshal,  this  fatal  stroke  of  war,  and  was  it  not  pre 
cisely  because  of  this  that  he  took  up  the  gauntlet 
which  Napoleon  had  thrown  down? 


Frames  • 


4 


.4° 


/> 


INDEX. 


Abuse,  not  an  argument  against 
the  use  of  things,  96. 

Actors,  as  conversers,  10. 

Adams,  John  Q.  254. 

Addison,  his  conversation,  12; 
his  care  in  writing,  117;  his 
fondness  for  Bayle's  Diction 
ary,  195;  his  worldly  success, 
228;  his  failure  as  an  orator, 
251. 

Alba,  Duke  of,  his  cruelty,  74. 

Alcibiades,  his  conversation,  15. 

American  literature,  its  defects, 
161. 

Andrew  Fletcher,  205. 

Angelo,  Michael,  170. 

Anglo-Saxon  race,  the,  unsympa 
thetic,  144. 

Anjou,  Francois,  Duke  of,  264. 

Aquinas,  Thomas,  193. 

Argyle,  the  Duke  of,  as  an  ora 
tor,  206. 

Artists,  their  coarseness,  180. 

Authors,  as  conversers,  9-15; 
their  writings  not  always  a 
key  to  their  dispositions,  170, 
174,  179;  their  poverty,  233, 
234;  advice  to,  235,  236. 

Authorship,  examples  of  unpro 
fitable,  224;  its  remuneration 
in  France,  231;  not  ill-paid, 
224-238 ;  often  a  pis-atler,  234 ; 
its  prerequisites,  235,  236 ;  not 
incompatible  with  vulgar  cares, 
236. 

B. 

Bacon,  Lord,  his  essays,  23 ;  his 
conversation,  24. 


Bail  lie,  Joanna,  quoted,  14-83 ;  on 
Mackintosh's  talk,  29. 

Beattie,  Dr.  James,  his  literary 
criticisms,  243. 

Beaumont,  Francis,  on  the  con 
versation  at  the  "Mermaid" 
tavern,  20. 

Beecher,  Dr.  Lyman,  his  wit,  191. 

Beecher,  Henry  Ward,  his  wit, 
191 ;  his  elocution,  205. 

Beethoven,  a  slow  composer,  1 i:< ; 
anecdote  of,  113. 

Bentley's  Miscellany,  33. 

Beranger.a  laborious  writer,  118. 

Beresford,  author  of  "  Miseriea 
of  Human  Life,"  181. 

Bergerac,  Cyrano  de,  264. 

Berkeley,  Bishop,  on  elocution. 
206. 

Blanc,  Louis,  on  Robespierre,  180. 

Blanchard,  Laman,  173,  225. 

Blucher,  Field  Marshal,  his  de 
feat  at  Ligny,  276. 

Boasters,  not  always  coward*,  72. 

Boileau,  epigram  by,  59. 

Bon  mots,  their  power  in  France. 
141. 

Book,  one,  value  of  ita  excludr* 
study,  194-199. 

Books,  their  cheapness  not  wholly 
a  blessing,  199;  communion 
with,  199. 

Booth,  Junius  Brutua,  the  eMer. 
his  reading  of  the  Lord'*  Pray 
er,  208. 

Boesuet,  his  labor  in  writing.  1 

Bravery,  sometime*  ftMUuhwl 
with  cruelty,  78, 74 

Brougham,  Lord,  hi*  noM,9H 

Brown,  Dr.  Thoma*,  188. 

Browne,  Sir  ThomM,  on  Physi 
ognomy,  85. 


296 


INDEX. 


Buckle,  Henry  Thomas,  his  con 
versation,  41. 

Buffon,  12,  24;  a  fastidious 
writer,  118. 

Burke,  Edmund,  his  conversa 
tion,  40,  41 ;  his  fastidiousness 
as  a  writer,  117 ;  on  the  French 
idealism  in  government,  154, 
155 ;  a  type  of  the  English 
mind,  158;  on  political  ab 
stractions,  158. 

Burns,  Robert,  his  conversation, 
27,  28 ;  a  fastidious  writer,  116. 

Burton,  Robert,  his  Anatomy  of 
Melancholy,  221. 

Bushnell,  Dr.  Horace,  204,  205. 

Butler,  Samuel,  his  conversation, 
13;  on  the  tongue,  1  ;  epi 
gram  on,  61 ;  his  miseries,  172. 

Byron,  Lord,  his  conversation, 
28 ;  on  De  Stael's,  34 ;  a  rapid 
writer,  110  ;  his  opinion  of  his 
poems,  169 ;  his  melancholy, 
172;  on  originality,  220;  his 
income.  230;  his  literary  criti 
cisms,  240,  245. 

C. 

Ctesar,  Julius,  16,  169. 

Calvin,  John,  contrasted  with 
Luther,  148, 190. 

Campbell,  Thomas,  his  conversa 
tion,  14;  a  fastidious  writer, 
116;  his  opinion  touching  his 
masterpiece,  169,  170;  his 
worldly  success,  230. 

Canning,  George,  his  labor  on 
his  speeches,  119. 

Canova,  sculptor,  168. 

Carlini,  actor,  anecdote  of,  173. 

Carlyle,  Thomas,  his  conversa 
tion,  39. 

Cellini,  Benvenuto,  his  boastful- 
ness,  73. 

Chalmers,  Dr.  Thomas,  203,  220, 
254. 

Charles  II.,  on  Butler's  conversa 
tion,  13. 


Chateaubriand,  his  occasional 
obscenity,  180. 

Chatham,  Lord,  his  conversation, 
40;  his  fondness  for  Barrow, 
195. 

Chaucer,  219,  227. 

Cheerfulness,  its  value,  186,  187. 

Chesterfield,  Lord,  on  laughter, 
190 ;  his  oratory,  206. 

Christina,  of  Sweden,  saying  of, 
26. 

Cicero,  his  conversation,  16. 

Clarendon,  Lord,  195. 

Cleveland,  John,  his  epigram  on 
the  Scots,  60. 

Clubs,  literary,  44-52 ;  when  ob 
jectionable,  44-46 ;  the  London 
"Literary  Club,"  46;  advan 
tages  of,  46,  52. 

Cobbett,  William,  on  writing, 
108. 

Coincidences,   literary,  221,  222. 

Coleridge,  S  T.,his  conversation, 
34-36  ;  on  the  French,  121 ;  his 
indebtedness  to  Collins,  195; 
a  literary  borrower,  220 ;  why 
always  poor,  230 ;  his  nose,  263. 

Composition,  literary,  hints  on, 
107-8;  speed  in,  109-113;  ex 
acts  labor,  114 ;  also  time,  120. 

"Contentment  better  than  rich 
es,"  a  fallacy,  79. 

Conversation,  of  authors,  9-15 ; 
of  actors,  10;  of  the  ancients, 
15  ;  requisites  of  good,  40 ;  the 
art  dying  out,  42-43;  neces 
sary  to  culture,  50-52. 

Conversers,  the  great,  9-43 ;  need 
of  a  work  on,  9;  authors  and 
actors  not  good,  10. 

Cooper,  Fennimore,  220. 

Corneille,  12 ; 

Courier,  Paul  Louis,  his  style, 
138. 

Cowley,  Abraham,  his  conversa 
tion,  24. 

Cowper,  William,  his  conversa 
tion,  12 ;  on  care  in  writing, 
110;  his  mental  gloom,  171; 
his  bashfulness,  252. 


INDEX. 


297 


Criticism,  curiosities  of,  289-248 , 
how  biased,  239;  rarity  ol 
genuine,  247. 

Cromwell,  Oliver,  102, 104 ;  con 
trasted  with  the  French  revo 
lutionists,  147. 

Curran,  John  Philpot,  his  first 
speech,  252. 

Cuvier,  102. 

D. 

Dante,  195. 

David,  painter,  168. 

De  Maistre,  Count  Joseph,  on 
France  in  1796,  122;  on  the 
proselytism  of  the  French,  143; 
on  the  French  Constitutions. 
157. 

Demogeot,  J.,  on  French  civiliza 
tion,  142. 

Demosthenes,  195. 

Denham,  Sir  John,  on  Cowley 
and  Killigrew.  24. 

De  Quincey,  Thomas,  on  Cole 
ridge's  conversation,  35;  his 
own  conversation,  38-39;  on 
his  own  physiognomy,  86;  on 
improvisation,  112;  on  the  in 
vention  of  types,  213. 

Descartes,  12. 

De  Stael,  Madame,  her  conversa 
tion,  34. 

DeTocqueville,  Alexis,  on  the 
French,  124 

Dickens,  Charles,  230. 

Difficulty,  a  blessing,  97. 

Diogenes,  his  sayings,  15. 

Disraeli,  Benjamin,  epigrams  on, 
64,65. 

Disraeli,  Isaac,  quoted. 

Dissatisfaction,  a  law  of  life,  81. 

Dolabella,  16. 

Domitian,  178. 

Dorset,  the  Earl  of,  on  Butler's 
conversation,  13. 

Drudgery,  the  Bishop  of  Exeter 
on,  119. 

Dryden,  John,  his  conversation, 
12 ;  his  elocution,  202 ;  his  in 
come,  228. 


Dualism,  in  men's  lives,  168-185. 
Duclos,  on  papal  elections,  101. 
Duelling,  repressed  by  satire, 

164. 
Dugazon,  actor,  on  noses,  270. 

E. 

Economy,  private,  a  public  bless- 
ing,  78. 

Eldon,  Lord,  epigram  on,  58 ;  on 
public  speaking,  254. 

Ellis,  George,  his  conversation, 
28. 

Eloquence,  the  heart  its  source, 
208. 

Elphinstone,  Bishop,  187. 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo,  on  origi 
nality,  217. 

Emmons,  Dr.  Nathaniel,  his  wit, 
191. 

English  periodicals,  their  solem 
nity,  159, 160. 

English,  the,  their  slowness,  127 ; 
their  pertinacity,  128;  th«-ir 
gruffness,  133 ;  their  hospital 
ity,  133;  good  colonizers,  185; 
inferiority  of  their  writers  aa 
stylists  to  the  French,  188; 
their  wealth,  138;  their  nar 
rowness,  144 ;  their  orators  com 
pared  with  those  of  the  Frrn.-h. 
149 ;  defects  of  their  literal  u  n- , 
152, 153 ;  their  contempt  of  po 
litical  abstractions,  155;  tin  ir 
political  inconsistencies,  158; 
their  legislation,  157;  their 
love  of  precedents,  157. 
Epigrams,  53-71 ;  why  good  one* 
are  rare,  58;  their  requisites, 
54;  the  changes  they  hare  un 
dergone,  55;  collection  of,  by 
Rer.  J.  Booth,  55;  Martial's. 
56-58;  neatness  of  the  French, 
59 ;  surprise  an  element  of,  00; 
the  great  age  of,  61 ;  on  Marl- 
borough,  61,  63;  on  names,  64; 
when  formidable,  08,  09 ;  why 
Marly  obsolete,  09-71. 
Erasmus,  168. 


298 


INDEX. 


Erskine,  Thomas,  Lord,  on  elo 
quence,  207,  208;  his  maiden 
speeches,  252. 

F. 

Faces,  85. 

Fallacies,  popular,  72-84. 

Ft' in' Ion,  a  rapid  writer,  111. 

Fielding,  Henry,  247. 

Foote,  Samuel,  17. 

Foster,  John,  his  con  venation,  37. 

Fox,  Chas.  James,  his  conversa 
tion,  40 ;  on  Burke's,  41 ;  on 
the  French,  136. 

France,  the  focus  of  civilization, 
142;  the  interpreter  between 
England  and  mankind,  142. 
143. 

Francis,  Sir  Philip,  252. 

French,  the,  their  versatility,  122, 
123;  their  paradoxical  char 
acter,  123, 124  ;  described  by  De 
Tocqueville,  124;  caricatured 
by  the  English,  125 ;  the  lead 
ing  nation  of  Europe,  125 ; 
their  mercurial  nature,  126 ; 
their  lack  of  patience,  127 ; 
128;  their  fondness  for  the 
theatrical,  128-132 ;  their  van 
ity,  132 ;  contrasted  with  the 
English,  132;  their  love  of 
glory,  132 ;  their  self-con 
sciousness,  133;  their  divorce 
of  profession  and  practice,  134; 
their  dependence  on  others  for 
happiness,  134-  their  gregari- 
ousness,  134;  their  failure  as 
colonizers,  135 ;  their  litera 
ture,  137-143;  clearness  of 
their  literary  style,  139 ,  their 
sociality,  140 ;  their  superiority 
in  conversation  and  letter- 
writing,  140;  their  brilliant 
wit,  140;  their  appreciation  of 
foreign  ideas,  141 ;  their  ppirit 
of  proselytism,  143 ;  their  sym 
pathy  with  the  down-trodden, 
143;  their  preeminence  as  lo 
gicians,  145,  147;  their  ten 
dency  to  scepticism,  146 ;  their 


lack  of  profound  convictions. 
147;  their  dogmatism,  148; 
their  preeminence  as  orators, 
148 ;  their  inferiority  in  poetry, 
149, 151 ;  their  passion  for  ab 
stract  ideas,  151-153;  their 
idealism  in  politics,  153,  154, 
157. 

French  language,  its  defects,  146, 
151. 

French  traits,  121-158. 

Frenchwomen,  their  coquetry, 
131. 

Fuller,  Margaret,  on  Carlyle'* 
conversation,  40. 

G. 

Galiani,  the  Abb£,  his  definition 
of  sublime  oratory,  7. 

Qarrick,  David,  on  Adam  Smith's 
conversation,  18. 

Garrow,  Baron,  59. 

Gay,  John,  his  epitaph,  172. 

Gauls,  the,  described  by  Julius 
Caesar,  128. 

Genest,  the  Abbe,  268,  264. 

Genius,  men  of,  their  self-igno 
rance,  169. 

Germanic  literatures,  their  merits 
and  defects,  150, 151. 

German  writers,  their  obscurity, 
139,  140. 

Gibbon,  the  historian,  a  rapid 
writer;  his  failure  as  an  ora 
tor,  251 ;  his  nose,  266. 

Gilford,  his  critical  judgments, 
244. 

Girardet,  painter,  168. 

Godliness,  true,  is  cheerful,  186. 

Godwin,  William,  his  talk,  13;  a 
rapid  writer,  111;  his  nose, 
265. 

Goethe,  John  Wolfgang,  70;  on 
originality,  217 ;  his  borrow 
ings,  221. 

Goldsmith,  Oliver,  as  a  convener, 
12,  13  ;  on  Johnson's  conversa 
tion,  12;  on  Burke's,  41  ;  his 
care  in  composition,  115 ;  on 
the  solemnity  of  contemporary 


TXDI:\. 


IN 


English  writers,  160,  161 ;  his 
distresses,  172;  on  eloquence, 
209  ;  his  earnings  as  a  writer, 
229 ;  causes  of  his  poverty, 
233 ;  his  criticism  of  Hamlet's 
soliloquy,  240. 

Gough,  John  B.,  254. 

Graham,  of  Claverhouse,  his 
cruelty,  74. 

Gray,  Thomas,  a  slow  writer, 
117 ;  his  love  of  Spenser,  195 ; 
his  literary  criticisms,  243. 

Greeks,  the  ancient,  265. 

Greeley,  Horace,  198. 

Grimaldi,  the  actor,  his  looks,  87. 

Grimm,  264. 

Grouchy,  Marshal,  278-282,  288 ; 

Guizot,  on  French  civilization, 
141 ;  on  French  science  and 
politics,  152. 

H. 

Hall,  Robert,  on  Mackintosh's 
conversation,  29 ;  his  own  con 
versation,  36-37 ;  contrasted 
with  Coleridge,  37 ;  a  slow 
writer,  111 ;  his  jests,  188;  his 
patience  in  suffering,  188;  a 
literary  borrower,  220. 

Hamilton,  Philip,  G.,  on  solitude, 
50 ;  on  modern  landscape  paint 
ing,  180. 

Hamilton,  Sir  William,  on  teach 
ing,  52. 

Handel,  a  rapid  composer,  113. 

Hannay,  James,on  old  witticism**, 
17. 

Harrison,  Frederic,  159. 

Harte,  Bret,  on  physiognomy,  87. 

Hare,  Archdeacon,  on  playful 
ness,  189. 

Hawthorne,  Nathaniel,  on  the 
French  and  the  English  as 
revolutionists,  143. 

Haydn,  a  slow  composer,  118 

Haynan,  Gen.,  74. 

Hazlitt,  William,  on  authors  and 
actors  as  conveners,  10;  on 
Godwin's  conversation,  18 ;  on 
Lamb's,  83 ;  on  Northcote's,  84. 


Hegel,  on  Cousin's  literary  bor 
rowings,  218. 

Henry  IV.,  of  France,  147. 

Heron,  author  of  "  Comforts  of 
Human  Life,"  181. 

Hobbies,  174-178. 

Homer,  a  profound  student  of. 
196. 

Hobbes,  of  Malmesbury,  on  read 
ing  198. 

Hood,  Thomas,  his  melancholy 
look,  87,  181;  his  menul 
gloom,  174 ;  his  poverty,  225. 

Hook,  Theodore,  86,  J 

Horace,  his  satir*-. 

House  of  Commons,  the,  a  prac 
tical  body,  156. 

Hugo,  Victor,  on  Paris,  24 ;  on 
Napoleon's  defeat  at  Wati-rloo, 
105,  293. 

Hume,  David,  as  a  convener,  12 ; 
on  factions  in  the  Greek  Em 
pire,  101 ;  his  income,  228, 228. 


1. 


Improvisation,  in  literature  and 
music,  112;  the  present  an  age 
of,  120. 

Intercourse,  the  best  teacher,  48. 

J. 

Jameson,  Bin.,  on  the  French. 
180. 

"Jane  Eyre,"  characterised  by 
the  Quarterly  Review,  247. 

Jeffrey,  Francis  Lord,  230, 258. 

Jerrold,  Douglas,  extract  from. 
90;  his  projected  treaUM  OB 
natural  philosophy,  148. 

Joan  of  Arc,  105. 

Johnson,  Dr.  Samuel,  his  coow 
sation,  10,  28-27;  on  Burke'a, 
41 ;  his  advice  to  young 
writer*.  Ill  hln  rapid  com 
position,  118;  his  cat,  180;  hi* 
rudemws,  181 ;  an  omolrcroos 
reader,  107, 108;  his  final  sue. 
cess  as  an  author.  228;  hto 
literary  criticisms,  241, 841. 


300 


INDEX. 


Jones,  Paul,  180. 

Jones,  Sir  William,  195. 

Jonson,  Ben,  his  conversation, 
20-21 ;  on  Bacon's  conversa 
tion,  24 ;  a  great  borrower,  220 ; 
his  literary  criticisms,  240. 

Journalism,  as  a  calling,  237, 238. 

K. 

Keats,  John,  244,  247. 

Kenrick,  Dr.,   his  criticisms   of 

Goldsmith,  243. 
Killigrew,  24. 
Knowledge,  variety  of,  necessary, 

197. 
Kosciusko,  268. 


La  Fontaine,  12. 

Lamartine,  180. 

Lamb,  Charles,  his  talk,  82 ;  his 
laboriousness  in  writing,  117; 
on  laughter,  165 ;  his  hours  of 
melancholy,  178. 

Landor,  Walter  Savage,  on  Shak- 
speare's  pilfering,  218. 

La  Place,  his  atheism,  146. 

La  Rochefoucauld,  his  care  in 
writing,  119. 

Laughter,  its  beneficial  effects, 
165,  166;  needed  by  Ameri 
cans,  166;  Chamfort  on,  106; 
Swift's  opinion  of,  166. 

Lavater,  anecdote  of,  90. 

Law,  as  a  means  of  repressing 
vice,  93-99. 

Lee,  Nathaniel,  202. 

Leibnitz,  195. 

Lewis,  Sir  George  C.,  178. 

Ligny,  battle  of,  276. 

Liston,  the  actor,  his  looks,  87; 
deemed  tragedy  his  proper  call 
ing,  169  ;  his  love  of  Young's 
"  Night  Thoughts,"  182. 

Literary  appropriation,  examples 
of,  221,  222. 

Literary  workshops,  a  peep  into, 
107-120. 


Literature,  pleasantry  in,  159- 
167 ;  gravity  of  English  period 
ical,  159,  160;  not  ill-paid, 
224-238 ;  its  advantages  as  a 
profession,  226. 

Livy,  on  the  admission  of  ple 
beians  to  the  Consulate,  105. 

Locke,  John,  241. 

Louis  VII.,  of  France,  101. 

Louis  XIV.,  conversation  at  his 
court,  24-26;  his  compliment 
to  Conde,  25. 

Luther,  Martin,  as  a  talker,  17- 
19, 40 ;  sayings  from  his  "  Table 
Talk,"  18;  contrasted  with 
Calvin,  148;  his  humor,  189, 
190. 

Lytton,  Sir  E.  Bulwer,  his  liter 
ary  earnings,  230;  his  nose, 
265. 

M. 

Macaulay,  Lord,  his  conversation, 
30;  his  care  in  writing,  119; 
on  French  literature,  142;  a 
literary  borrower,  220,  222; 
his  income,  230. 

Mackintosh,  Sir  James,  his  talk, 
29. 

Maginn,  on  laughter,  167. 

Malherbe,  a  slow  writer,  117. 

Man,  the  inner  and  outer,  often 
contrasted,  168-185. 

Marlborough,  the  Duke  of,  epi 
grams  on,  62. 

Marmontel,  12. 

Martial,  on  noses,  259,  270. 

Masson,  Prof.,  on  French  dogma 
tism,  148. 

Mendelssohn,  a  slow  composer, 
113. 

"  Mermaid,"  the,  wits  of,  19. 

Miller,  Joe,  his  book,  17. 

Mill,  J.  S.,  on  persecution,  76; 
on  contentment,  83;  on  the 
French  idealism  in  govern 
ment,  153, 154. 

Milton,  John,  on  the  removal  of 
sin,  104;  his  preference  for 


IXDEX. 


301 


"Paradise  Regained,"  169 ;  his 
literary  appropriations,  217 
227,  241. 

Mirabeau,  his  delivery,  206. 

Moliere,  12;  his  slowness  in 
writing,  117;  on  plagiarism 
219. 

Montagu,  Lady  Mary  Wortley 
saying  of,  48. 

Montaigne,  on  physiognomy,  90 
on  lying  in  France,  130. 

Montbelliard,  24. 

Montesquieu,  195. 

Moore,  Thomas,  epigram  on,  63 ; 
his  epigrams,  63,  64;  his  de 
scription  of  Nourmahal,  91 ;  a 
slow  writer,  116;  his  income, 
230;  his  opinion  of  Chaucer, 
244 ;  his  nose,  263. 

Morality,  compulsory,  93-99. 

Morley,  John,  on  absolutism  in 
France  and  in  England,  152; 
on  French  and  English  apho 
ristic  literature,  152. 

Morse,  the  real  inventor  of  the 
electric  telegraph,  216. 

Murder,  not  always  detected,  75 ; 
instances  of  it,  75. 


N. 

Napier,  Sir  Charles,  265. 

Napoleon  I.,  his  cruelty,  74 ;  hia 
love  of  Ossian's  poems,  180; 
causes  of  his  defeat  at  Water 
loo,  272-293;  his  complaints  of 
Grouchy,  281 ;  contrasted  with 
Wellington,  132 ;  contrasted 
with  Nelson,  132. 

Nasby,  Petroleum  V.,  his  letters 
during  the  civil  war,  164, 165. 

Neal,  John,  107. 

Nelson,  Lord,  hia  cruelty,  74. 

Newton,  Sir  Isaac,  his  great  dis 
covery,  103. 

Nicolle,  saying  of,  12. 

Niebuhr,  on  English  conversa 
tion,  26 ;  on  literary  composi 
tion,  108. 


Northcote,  James,  hia  conversa 
tion,  84. 

Noses,  257-271 ;  neglected  by  the 
poets  and  essayists,  258 ;  their 
afflictions,  259;  an  index  to 
character,  259,  260,  269 ;  large 
ones  admired,  260,  261 ;  pug, 
indicative  of  feebleness  of  will 
261;  Greek,  265;  flexibl. 
hawk,  266;  flat,  267;  snub, 
267;  when  well-formed,  L'Tn  ; 
sham,  270. 

Nott,  Dr.  Eliphalet,  effects  of  hia 
humor,  165. 

O. 

O'Connell,   Daniel,  on    English 

Acts  of  Parliament,  157. 
Oken,  anatomist,  108. 
Opinion,  public,  does  not  alwaya 

find  expression,  76. 
Oratory,  pulpit,  200-210. 
Originality,  in    literature,   211- 

223;    in    invention,   212-214; 

defined, 212-215. 

P. 

Painters,  their  conversation,  83. 

Painting,  landscape,  its  modern 
development  due  to  big  cilleii, 
180. 

Paris,  122, 129, 180, 185, 186. 

Parr,  Dr.  Samuel,  epigram  on,  05. 

Parsons,  Dr.  T.W..  epigram  00,68. 

Pascal,  Blaise,  on  Mark  Anthony. 
101;  origin  of  hia  tract  on 
sound,  102;  his  care  in  com 
position,  117;  hia  style,  188; 
hia  ridicule  of  the  Jmuit*.  183; 
on  happiness,  188;  hU  "Pro 
vincial  Lettera,"  198 ;  on  plagia- 
rism,  223. 

Persecution,  often  auceoaaful.  78. 

Philanthropy,  when  moat  w»o. 
ceaaful,  98. 

Photography,   when 
•Jit 
itt,  William,  266,  267. 


302 


INDEX. 


Plagiarism,  frivolous  ctfarges  of, 
216-219. 

Pleasantry,  in  literature,  159-167. 

Pliny,  on  the  cause  of  the  destruc 
tion  of  Carthage,  104. 

Poets,  often  poor  critics  of  poet 
ry,  245. 

Pompey,  16. 

Pope,  Alexander,  his  conversa 
tion,  12 ;  his  epigrams,  60 ;  his 
habits  of  composition,  114 ;  his 
ridicule  of  fashionable  vices, 
163,  164 ;  his  income  from  his 
works,  228;  criticised  by  his 
enemies,  241 ;  his  timidity  in 
public  speaking,  251. 

Person,  Richard,  his  criticism  of 
Gibbon's  history,  244. 

Preachers,  who  have  mistaken 
their  calling,  201,  202;  their 
neglect  of  elocution,  202 ;  their 
apparent  lack  of  feeling,  207. 

Prescott,  the  historian,  on  Macau- 
lay's  conversation,  31. 

Pulpit,  the  modern,  its  wants, 
202 ;  importance  of  manner  in, 
202 ;  its  coldness,  207. 

Puritanism,  reaction  against  in 
England,  94. 

Pycroft,  Rev.  James,  of  Steevens, 
the  Shakspearean  commen 
tator,  196. 

Q. 

Quatre  Bras,  battle  of,  277. 

R. 

Reading,  miscellaneous,  to  whom 

profitable,  197,  198  ;  generally 

injurious,  198. 
Reformation  not  due  only  to  the 

sale  of  indulgences,  105. 
Richardson,  Samuel,  247. 
Ries,    on    Beethoven's    care    in 

composition,  114. 
Robertson,  Rev.  F.  W.,  on  Paris, 

130  ;  on  miscellaneoua  reading, 

198. 


Robinson,  Crabbe,  42. 

Rogers-,  Henry,  on  plagiarism, 
223. 

Rogers,  Samuel,  his  conversa 
tion,  31 ;  on  Moore,  22 ;  his 
epigram  on  Ward,  66. 

Rose,  Sir  George,  epigram  by, 
59,  66. 

Rossini,  his  advice  to  a  young 
composer,  113 ;  a  rapid  com 
poser,  113. 

Rousseau,  Jean  Jacques,  on  the 
conversation  of  authors,  10; 
on  his  own  conversation,  12; 
cause  of  his  eccentricities,  49 ; 
his  painstaking  in  composition, 
118;  his  favorite  authors,  195. 

Rymer,  Thomas,  his  criticism  of 
Shakspeare,  240. 

S. 

Sainte-Beuve,  his  painstaking  in 
composition,  118 ;  his  style,  138. 

Saints,  merry,  186-193. 

Sand,  Maurice.on  the  French,  135. 

Scaliger,  Joseph,  his  conversa 
tion,  19;  on  Justus  Lipsius,19. 

Scott,  Sir  Walte%his  conversa-- 
tion,  28 ;  on  Coleridge's,  36  ^ 
on  that  of  lawyers,  bishops, 
and  wits,  40;  his  rapidity  in 
literary  composition,  109,  112; 
believed  himself  designed  for 
a  soldier,  169 ;  an  omnivorous 
reader,  197;  his  historical 
romances,  221 ;  on  literature 
as  a  profession,  224 ;  his  earn 
ings  as  an  author,  229 ;  his 
novels  criticised,  243. 

Selden,    John,     his     table-talk, 

91    94 
ai—ftid. 

Seneca,  181. 

Sermons,  modern,  200,  201 ;  their 
effect  dependent  on  good  deliv 
ery,  204. 

Shakspeare,  his  discontent,  82, 
171  ;  his  opinion  of  his  sonnets, 
169  ;  criticised  by  Rymer,  and 
others,  240. 


INDEX. 


303 


Sharp,  "  Conversation,"  41. 
Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe',  a  fastidi 
ous  writer,  116. 

Shenstone,  William,  on  fine  writ 
ing,  115. 

Sheridan,  R.  B.,  his  habits  as  a 
writer,  117 ;  on  Rowland  Hill 
208. 

Siddons,  Mrs.,  actress,  269. 
Sidney,  Sir  Philip,  quoted,  96. 
Sieyes,   the  Abbe,   his  political 

constitutions,  154, 155. 
Smith,  Adam,  his  conversation, 

13 ;  a  rapid  writer,  111. 
Smith,  Horace,  his  sonnet  to  his 

nose,  271. 
Smith,  James,  his  conversation, 

33 ;  Digram  by,  66. 
Smith,  ^Sydney,  on  Mackintosh's 
conversation,  29 ;  his  talk,  29, 
30 ;   on    Macaulay's  conversa 
tion,  31 ;   epigram  on  Jeffrey, 
63 ;    a  rapid  writer,  110 ;    on 
Lord  John    Russell,  122;    on 
English  charity,  144 ;  his  "  Let- 
_ters  to  Peter  Plymley,"  164; 

his  merry  temper,  188. 
Socrates,    his    conversation,  15 ; 
*  his  looks,  86. 
Solitude,  its  advantages,  49  ;  De 

Senancour  on,  50. 
South,  Dr.  Robert,  his  wit,  193. 
South«y,  Robert,  229^.246. 
Speaking,    public,    timidity    in, 
249-256 ;  qualifications  for.  254, 
255 ;    consolations    for   failure 
in,  255. 

Spendthrifts,  not    public    bene 
factors,  77-79. 
Spenser,  227. 
Spinoza,  180. 
Spurgeon,  Rev.  Charles  H.,  his 

wit,  191, 192. 

Stanhope,  Lord,  anecdote  by,  26. 

Stephen,  Sir  James,*  on  Frencli 

style,    139;    on    the    French 

mind,  145. 

Sterling,  John,  his  conversation, 

41. 

Sterne,   Lawrence,  115;  on   the 
39 


French,  131 ;  his  treatment  of 
his  wife  and  mother,  181. 

Style,  literary,  French  and  Eng 
lish  contrasted,  138 ;  clearness 
of  the  French,  138 ;  obscurity 
of  the  German,  139. 

Sumptuary  laws,  94. 

Suwarrow,  his  looks,  86. 

Swift,  Dean,  on  Frenchmen  and 
Englishmen,  157;  his  discon 
tent,  172 ;  a  literary  borrower, 
221;  why  not  made  a  bishop, 
228. 


T. 

Taine,  H.,  his  comparison  of  the 
Latin  and  the  Germanic  litera 
tures,  150. 

Telegraph,  the  electric,  when 
first  invented,  214. 

Thackeray,  William  Makepeace, 
his  advice  to  writers,  111 ;  his 
"  Book  of  Snobs,"  164 ;  his  ten 
der-heartedness,  181. 

Themistocles,  his  sayings,  15. 

Thorswalden,  sculptor,  his  "  Mer 
cury,"  102. 

Tooke,  Home,  his  conversation, 
27. 

Trifles,  the  power  of,  100-106 

Turgot,  178. 

Turner,  Bishop  of  Ely,  264. 

Turner,  the  painter,  180. 

Tyler,  John,  President,  265. 

U.     r*. 

Utrecht,  Treaty  of,  101,  104. 

V. 

Vaugelas,  his  slowness  in  writ 
ing,  118. 

Vericour,  M.,  on  Sir  W.  Scott, 
221. 

Virgil,  a  laborious  writer,  115; 
his  literary  "  conveyances," 
219. 


304 


INDEX. 


Virtue,  true,  96 ;  Milton  on  fugi 
tive,  96,  97. 
Voltaire,  195. 

W. 

Waller,  Edmund,  his  opinion  of 
Milton,  241. 

Walton,  Izaak,  on  the  reading  of 
sermons,  203. 

Ward,  R.  P.,  epigram  on,  66. 

Waterloo,  battle  of,  272-293. 

Wellington,  the  Duke  of,  con 
trasted  with  Napoleon,  132. 

Whately,  Archbishop,  on  timid 
ity  in  public  speaking,  249. 

Whitefield,  Thomas,  his  oratory, 
204. 

Wilberforce,  William,  his  talk, 
28,  29 ;  his  merry  face,  88. 

Wilkes,  John,  268. 

William  III.,  of  England,  his 
struggle  with  Louis  XIV.,  128. 

Wilson,  John,  Professor,  his 
"  Noctes,"  51. 


Wit,  Anglo-Saxon  and  French 
contrasted,  140;  French  appre 
ciation  of,  141 ;  its  effects  in 
France,  141. 

Wits  and  humorists,  their  util 
ity,  1C2-1  '••:> ;  often  melancholy, 
170,  171. 

Wolfe,Qen.  James,  his  bravado,73. 

Wordsworth,  William,  229 ;  his 
early  poems  ridiculed,  246 : 
his  literary  criticisms,  246, 247 ; 
his  nose,  262,  263. 

World,  New  York,  the,  on  au 
thorship  in  New  York,  232. 

Writing,  hurry  not  always  preju 
dicial  to,  11*2. 

Y. 

Young,  Alexander,  his  epigrams, 
61 ;  his  looks,  88 ;  on  hasty 
composition,  115  ;  his  joviality, 
182. 

Z. 

Zimmerman,  49. 


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